If Fire Would Burn Me

Turkey (dismemberment) day.

2011-11-22T22:17:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

It's turkey (pickup) day. Behold, forty pounds of turkey, dismembered:

They were live turkeys as of this morning. I picked them up from a farm just north of Orangeville, came home, and tore them into boneless bits, a la Jacques Pepin. (Worth noting - it's significantly more taxing to debone a twenty-two pound turkey than a four-pound chicken.) A few more trims, and we've got:

Breasts for roasting - to become sandwich fillings - or for taco and pizza chorizo.
Tenderloins for stir-fries.
Thighs for stews and sausages.
Drumsticks for soups and braises.
Wings for soup.
Liver for dog treats. If we weren't hosting Thanksgiving - and cooking 95% of it - I might make pate. But there ain't time enough for that.
Wishbones for Thanksgiving fun.
Extraneous bits for tonight's stir-fry dinner. Specifically, the muscles beneath the shoulder, that came off with the wings.
Carcasses, wing tips, gizzards, and hearts for stock. With a handful of aromatics, they've given us about two gallons of rich stock for Thursday's feast.

The rest of the bird, sans what we've eaten tonight, is already in the freezer. This, of course, because I picked up our Thanksgiving bird from another farm, just to hedge my bets.

And to give us enough to eat throughout the year.

And, no, I don't roast a whole bird. Dry-brine - as stupid as that sounds - the breasts for gentle roasting. Cure and braise the leg quarters. Let the family deal with it.

Pork and pretzels.

2011-10-16T19:44:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Sharon's out of town, but here's proof for her that I'm still eating well:

Pork chop, low-temped in apple cider at 60°C, and seared for a good crust. A lovely pink inside, as a good pork chop should be. Pumpkin spätzle with sage. Mustard greens and chard with garlic and chilli. Butter-fried apples. A nice schwartzbier to accompany.

Meanwhile, I prepped an education example for tomorrow's baking class:

Pretzels and pretzel-shaped objects. The same batch, split in half. Those on the left enjoyed a bath in a sodium carbonate solution. On the right, a dip in plain water.

I'll bet you can guess which side smells of pretzel, and which of fresh bread.

Pumpkin cavatelli.

2011-10-04T12:14:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.Pumpkin season is here, and in full force. Given that repeated, heavy rains have done in much of the garden, I'm lucky that I have any at all, but eleven cheese pumpkins is still plenty. It would have been more, but only a few were harvestable after Irene, and anything still ripening by the time Lee arrived were on the way to rot.

Yes, we've already had pumpkin pie. I think some sort of soup is a strong contender for tonight. And last night, before I had to run off to teach class, we had pumpkin cavatelli:

Just pumpkin puree and flour, run through the cavatelli maker. The texture ended up a bit springy, not unlike udon, so I'll try them next with durum semolina. Sizable quantities of pumpkin gnocchi are also in our future, since they freeze - and cook from frozen - so well.

The pumpkin flavor and color were hard to miss; once boiled, their orange hue intensified. We tossed them with oyster mushrooms, garlic, and fresh sage, and I'm already looking forward to more.

Short ribs.

2011-09-28T14:05:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Sometimes, a new kitchen toy isn't cheap, so it had better be worth it. That Polyscience 7306c immersion circulator? 100% worth it. For example, the otherwise-impossible medium short rib:

Forty-eight hours - two days - at 60°C, with pre- and post-searing, for flavor, color, and bacteria-killing before the circulator bath. The end result is tender, juicy, and nothing like the (admittedly still pretty lovely) results of braising. Makes for a damn fine sandwich.

The same technique has been a real boon for other cuts, too. Juiciest pork chops and veal chops imaginable. Tender, moist chicken that makes the finest chicken salad I've ever had. (Yup, I'm not above using high-tech lab equipment for a better chicken salad.) Sausages, especially in large quantities, are juicy because they're properly poached, not just because of the pork fat.

Making twenty pounds of sausage for my brother's Oktoberfest suddenly required far less focus and split-second timing.

Also: amazingly precise eggs; confit without the need for pounds of lard and/or duck fat; fun tricks for gelatinizing and retrograding starch in rice, potatoes, etc. One of these days I'll see what kind if fun I can get into with malted barley and alpha- and beta-amylase at different temperatures. Probably carefully curdling milk into cheese, since I've really got to start making my own fresh mozzarella. There are more options than time, for now.

And, unrelated to circulator fun: bacon. It's been a while since I put up photos of the smoker, but since I forgot a finished bacon picture, here it is:

Four hours of hickory smoke, plus a gentle oven heating to give the proper hot-smoke effect. Lovely. Weeks upon weeks of flood-inducing rains have really limited smoking opportunities, so it's been nothing more than a garage obstacle since bacon time. Oh, well.

Mid-July harvest.

2011-07-19T17:18:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Prime harvest season is under way. We're enjoying the start of tomato season - which means mostly just devouring cherry tomatoes fresh - and a good variety of vegetables are ready to bring in, or nearly so. The first jalapeno peppers have been a treat, and a fiery one at that from all the dry heat, and in the past week or so we've seen snap beans, fresh basil, summer squash, and the window for digging garlic.

Lots of garlic. We'd pulled some for green garlic throughout the spring, but simply buying a few extra heads from the market last fall has resulted in a real bounty. Behold:

It's one of those "Take the photo, quick!" moments, as those eighty-ish plants, bundled and held at arm's length, get heavy. Quickly. Half a dozen heads came in for fresh garlic, and the rest are hanging in the garage to cure for four to six weeks. The very best - and there are some large and lovely heads - will hold until this October's planting. The rest are fair game for the kitchen. Due to shifting the garden, we had no garlic harvest last year. Now, I'll be making up for lost time with plenty of roasted garlic.

Also in the "unexpected bounty" category: napa cabbage. Now, this may look big, with all of its outer leaves still attached:

And it is. Very much so. With three more just like it.

I had no idea it would grow this large, but even after trimming, the main head weighs just over five pounds. Plus, there were three small side heads worth keeping. Add in the rest, and I think I might have enough kimchi to last me quite a while. It's been some time since I polished off the last batch, and it seems that another two, maybe three, are justified.

The new smoker.

2011-06-13T16:38:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

It took long enough, but I finally have a serious smoker. No more of those cardboard box shenanigans!¹

It still looks like a half-assed high school steampunk disaster, though:

Never mind that. It works, and works reliably, and if it didn't weigh a ton, it'd be perfect. A firebox, made from food-grade aluminum², holds a two-burner propane camp stove, each of which has its own cast-iron smoker box to hold the necessary wood chips and sawdust. The heat draws in plenty of oxygen from the apertures at the base, exiting out the duct at the top.

Then it's into the food box:

Even split into three separate pieces, this sucker's still heavy. Solid. Imposing to move in and out of the basement.

The base is where the smoke enters, and I can rig this up to include trays of ice for colder smoking, if necessary. Today, after three hours of smoking, it was a mere 150°F inside, which suggests to me that I've got good flexibility in temperature control. Come autumn, cooler temperatures will be much easier to achieve.

The central piece holds the racks for smoked items, as well as rods to hang sausages from. The whole front panel is a door that swings open, with a small window near the top to peek in. Atop that is a two-panel roof that can be opened as much as necessary to get good airflow.

Today's test run included some honey-cured bacon and a block of tofu. Really, once you've got it going, you might as well toss in what's at hand. If I'd had my act together, I'm sure I could have packed it full. Kamozawa and Talbot's Ideas in Food is full of suggestions to get things started. I'm already looking forward to smoked tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, apples, and pears, in addition to cured meats and sausages. And, undoubtedly, plenty more.

* * * * *

¹Actually, the cardboard box setup was pretty sweet, especially for a tiny apartment. If it weren't so finicky, and prone to waterproofing / wind resistance / flammability concerns, it might still be around.

²Read: Inexpensive sheet pans from a restaurant supply store. Trimmed, riveted together, and sealed with fireplace mortar.

Mid-June harvest.

2011-06-12T18:43:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

From a spring both cold and unfailingly wet, the weather has surged into the heat of high summer. Mostly dry, too, though the past few days have brought more than two inches of rain, primarily from thunderstorms. Some of the plants are thrilled, including the hops that have overwhelmed their supports, knotting into a fury of bines, leaves, and budding little cones:

The radishes have been less enthused, racing to bolt before we could pull more than a handful to eat. Still, the seedpods ought to be good for a stir-fry or two:

The rest of the deck planters are humming along nicely, providing a handy little salad bar just a few steps from the kitchen:

With sweet salad turnips, too:

These Hakurei turnips are tough to beat. Sweet, tender, and quick-growing, they've got delicious roots and leaves. The only bits we don't use are the tip of the root and the short section between trimming the root top and the base of the leaves.

We've also harvested a bunch of broccoli raab, which has grown enormously in the past week:

Also lettuces that are threatening to bolt any minute:

Kohlrabi with pristine leaves, thanks to plenty of rowcover:

And we've also started into our peas for this season:

The wet spring delayed planting, and this hotter-than-average weather means they'll likely be a brief treat this year. But at least we get some. The small local farms have, for the most part, skipped peas this year, since they couldn't get them in the ground in time.

On the upside, we've got plenty of purslane - it's having a banner year - which, as far as garden weeds go, is tough to get upset about. And the garlic scapes were too good to resist this morning, so they'll be a treat for as long as they last. Add some fresh strawberries to that, and it's becoming unclear how all of this is possibly going to fit into the refrigerator.

The garden, in pictures, despite the lack of greenery.

2011-06-03T19:44:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's not much to look at, but there's plenty of garden on its way. June arrived with fierce, hot weather - now tempered - and most everything's in the ground and growing.

Winter squash, melons, watermelon:

Pole beans, bush beans, lima beans:

Tomatoes, peppers, eggplant (yet to transplant):

Onions, leeks, garlic:

Potatoes:

Peas, soybeans, carrots, parsnips, fennel, poppies:

Tomatoes, tomatillos, summer squash, bitter melon:

Kohlrabi, broccoli raab, napa cabbage, lettuce, flowers galore:

And a mashup panorama of the whole thing:

Click on it for a better view - or at least as big an image as Flickr will handle. You get the gist of it.

Spinach gnocchi.

2011-05-11T12:44:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

We wanted vegetables for dinner last night.¹ So, in a moment of "well, duh," I went with spinach gnocchi, fresh asparagus, and green garlic:

Lots of green. Plus a realization that there's no reason I can use just about anything moist, flavorful, and puree-able to make dumplings. Ricotta and pumpkin have been standards for quite some time. Why not parsnips and carrots? Kale? Sweet basil? Red peppers? Roasted garlic? Smoked apples?

For the spinach version, I simply blanched a large bunch in boiling, salted water for about a minute, then drained and rinsed with cold water. A few squeezes removed excess water, and then the food processor turned them into a more-or-less smooth paste. I added an egg, which helped along the blending, and offers a bit of structural assistance during cooking. Then just enough flour, lightly kneaded to make things workable, and they're ready to boil.

Or, in brief: Flavorful, moist food + egg + flour = colorful, flavorful gnocchi.

Plus, they freeze and cook up like a dream. What's not to like?

* * * * *

¹Pizzas the night before, and tacos the night before that. Delicious, but generally light on greenery.

Asparagus.

2011-04-28T17:25:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

First asparagus of the season:

And, since it's a new patch, the first harvest for us. Ever. It's quite exciting.

Spring liveliness.

2011-04-25T19:09:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

I planted my strawberries today - three weeks after they arrived - and I'm pleasantly sore from lugging several yards of soil about the yard. (There's still more to go, but it's less pressing.)

It's getting ickily humid, with thunderstorms potentially arriving any moment, but there's been just enough evening light for a few photos.

The hops are getting big. Fast. This one's over two feet, from barely finger-length less than two weeks back:

The Asian pears are just about to burst into bloom:

Peaches, on the other hand, aren't waiting:

And, as near as I can tell, the blackcurrant bush is happy. It was a sudden gift from our friends Matt and Nina, who moved from Lewisburg last summer. Nina couldn't bear leaving it to be ignored - or worse, torn out - by the subsequent renters, and asked if we'd please take it. The deathly dry August weather didn't give me too much hope for a good relocation, but there wasn't a choice. But, hey, it's looking lively:

So while I've been doing all this, my neighbors have been mowing their lawns. Ah, the impending tedium.

Spring pictures.

2011-04-14T15:28:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

With a little sunshine, it's looking more and more like spring. (That and the two neighbors out on their lawnmowers.)

The first violet of the season:

The daffodils are in full bloom:

So's the hyancinth. Fragrant, too.

Rhubarb's wasting no time:

And the hop shoots are coming on fast. With a little luck, I'll finish up the new supports tomorrow - concrete's curing right now - and get the best ones trained.

The rest, of course, are just another spring vegetable treat.

Dandelions.

2011-04-13T20:58:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

So far, spring's been a bust. I'm weeks behind schedule for planting peas - it's been too cold and too wet - and I've been so desperate to get trees¹ transplanted that I've been digging out in the rainstorms. Tomorrow, assuming the nine inches of water drains from the post holes, I'll be setting the new hop supports system in concrete. If not, maybe Friday?

Even the dandelions are in short supply thus far, though I was able to collect enough for a few meals from the warm spots about the house. On the south side, where we're busy tearing out the expired yews the previous owner left, the sun plus reflected light from the house has given a handful of dandelions enough warmth to sprout. Just a few minutes of digging, followed by plenty of washings² to remove the accumulated mud and debris, and it's wonderful, delicious spring greens.

The small and tender greens are tasty nibbled raw, with just a little bitterness. I tend to eat a few while I'm cooking, or if I'm working outside. Most, though, I blanch to strip off the bitterness, to keep it from overwhelming everything else. Fifteen seconds in salted, boiling water does the trick. The leaves wilt, but stay green. The bitterness is gone. And a dousing in cold water keeps them looking good.

I cooked the first handful with a few sliced mushrooms, topped with some slices of homemade pancetta. A little barley cooked in chicken stock, left over from another dinner, and some sauteed broccoli with garlic and wild onions. Though I'm not overwhelmed by their flavor - it's distinctly different from the cultivated alliums - a little bit is nice for variety. Besides, they're the only edible plants growing happily outdoors.

Tonight, more dandelion greens, blanched and sauteed with shallots. Tossed with fresh orecchiette³ and some local arugula, chopped and wilted by the pasta's heat out of the pan. A few crispy croutons from an old loaf of bread, and a grating of parmesan cheese.

So, basically a warm pasta salad. Nothing wrong with that.

Spring is coming, though. Soon. The rhubarb is coming out; the strawberries are coming back to life; the hops are sending up shoots like mad; and I spotted the first clump of field mustard, almost ready for picking.

* * * * *

¹Three pears and three hickory. I'd ordered another pear and several bush cherries, but supplies ran short for this year. Though I was initially disappointed, my back and shoulders are currently thrilled.

²Six before bagging, then again once more before cooking. It's a mess outside.

³Mine aren't traditional, since I make them from an egg pasta dough, but they're easy to shape by hand and have a nice, chewy texture. When we're loaded with broccoli raab from the garden, it's usually the first dish. Orecchiette are also a handy fallback for pasta-plus-vegetable meals, where it's not so much a sauce as chunks with olive oil, red pepper, and parmesan.

Bread, with pictures.

2011-02-06T13:06:00.002-05:00

Lewisburg.

Yesterday was, among other things, a bread-baking day. A short trip into work, followed by a casual breakfast, then a retreat from the ice, rain, and damp. Despite the fact that the entire process takes several hours, it only occupies the hands and mind for brief intervals, and so really lends itself to a day of chores and minor tasks about the house. In addition, I've been doing what I can to teach my friend Seth to bake bread - from a thousand miles away - and figured that a little photography was in order.

The day before, I started things in motion. I scribbled down a recipe, to start.¹ Cleaned up, it looks like this:

Total:
585g AP flour (65%)
225g whole wheat flour (25%)
90g whole rye flour (10%)
45g bulgur wheat (5%)
45g rolled oats (5%)
45g polenta/grits (5%)
725g water (81%)
20g salt (2.2%)
1-¼ tsp. yeast, plus a pinch

Poolish (35%):
315g AP flour
315g water
Pinch yeast²

Soaker:
45g bulgur wheat
45g rolled oats
45g polenta/grits
20g salt
410g water

Final add:
270g AP flour
225g whole wheat flour
90g whole rye flour
1-¼ tsp. yeast

The soaker and poolish need sixteen-plus hours' worth of a head start, so I try to get them going around lunchtime the day before baking.

The poolish is a high-moisture pre-ferment, which gives the bread more flavor and more staying power. I prefer poolishes to a thicker pate fermentee or biga, because they're easier to mix. But I'll use whatever suits. As it ripens, the poolish looks like the top of a pancake:

It's just flour and water, in equal proportions, with a little bit of yeast. The rest of the dough's water and the salt are in the soaker:

This ensures that the large grains in the loaf are well integrated, which isn't guaranteed otherwise. Notice how the rolled oats have plumped? And how the bulgur is exploded almost like popcorn? They're full of moisture, and won't rob it from the dough. They also won't remain firm and crunchy in the crumb, or threaten to tear the dough as I work it.

After a long rest, I combine these with the remaining flours, and more yeast to raise the dough. I like using an electric stand mixer and dough hook for kneading, especially for a batch with multiple loaves, or very wet doughs.³ So after about five minutes with the dough hook, here's the shaggy mass of dough:

There's no form to it, but the gluten structure is apparent. As I don't like oiling bowls, like a lot of bread recipes suggest, I prefer to give a fold here, which adds enough shape and structure that the dough slides easily from bowl after the first segment of its rise.

To fold, there are a hadful of different methods, but I use Jeffrey Hamelman's. It's a little more involved, but I find that it does an excellent job of strengthening the dough. Since it folds over dough from four directions, 90 degrees apart, everything's very evenly balanced when going back into the bowl. I don't find it necessary to reshape the dough into a ball after this, since the primary fermentation time really seals up the edges.

Here's after the second fold, 50 minutes later. There's been a slight increase in volume, more noticeable to my hands than my eyes.

You might notice the brush sitting on the board here. I use it to brush excess flour from the dough, as it does a much more thorough and much gentler job of it than my fingers.

After another 50 minutes, the third fold. There's a significant volume increase here, even after degassing. The strengthening dough is also pulling itself closer to a sphere.

The last 50 minutes of primary fermentation pass, and it's time for a fold, dividing, and pre-shaping. I wanted to use my small, round bannetons, so I've divided this batch into three loaves. Two will do their final rise in the bannetons, and the other will just be a boule.

These sit on the board, seam side up, and covered, for about 15 minutes. Since they've been through a bit of handling - a fold prior to dividing, and another after - the gluten's tight. If I work them too much, I'll tear the smooth skin that's forming the surface of the loaf. So they sit until the gluten relaxes, and I can finish shaping them.

The floured bannetons hold the loaves upside down, lending them some shape and the distinct spiral flour pattern. The boule - sitting upright here - will rest upside down, wrapped in floured linen to prevent it from drying out. The final rise will take about and hour and a half in the cool kitchen, before they're ready for baking.

Note that the banneton loaves are a little taller, a little less sprawled than the boule. They're all the same, within a few grams, but the difference in form is umistakable.

A few moments later, the loaves with scoring. These are fairly deep cuts, made with a standard hardware store single-edge razor blade, because I know they're going to expand significantly. For larger boules, I tend to make an X shape across the top, which provides more room for expansion, but the single slash does make them easier to slice later.

The loaves proofed in the bannetons have been scored with the blade perpendicular to the loaf's surface, to nearly an inch at the deepest point. The other boule is a test, using the blade at about 30 degrees up from the surface, making just a shallow cut. Maybe a bit over a quarter inch. When this works properly, it forms a lip that continues to expand, giving more room for oven spring than it would seem to suggest. It's a trick used for long loaves, but there's no reason it won't work here.

That waviness along the edge is a result of me trying to match the curve with a stiff wrist. I find that my scoring is far more effective when I keep my hand and wrist stable, letting my whole arm move. The blade seems to cut so much better this way.

Then it's into the preheated oven. This is my best attempt at creating a baking hearth at home. Six firebrick splits - half-thickness refractory brick⁴ - to serve as a base hearth, with space for air circulation around. A cast-iron skillet filled with lava rocks for steam generation. An oven thermometer. A (slightly damaged) pizza stone that lives on the bottom, permanently, for a little more thermal mass.

The bricks hold a great deal of heat, and are able to absorb moisture from the baking bread, resulting in a superior crust. They need a while to preheat, so I'll give them at least an hour to get up to the 450°F that I prefer for most breads.⁵ They also stay hot for some time after the oven is turned off, so I do need to plan dinner after baking accordingly.

The skillet and lava rocks - intended for gas grills - are there to generate steam early in the bake. They preheat with the oven, so that water poured over top has plenty of surface to evaporate. This gives better oven spring, and a nicer, thinner, crispier crust. I also use a spray bottle to hit the sides of the oven immediately before loading the loaves in. Another trick - for loaves without a flour pattern on the surface - is to brush them with water just before scoring.

The breads go in on a peel dusted with cornmeal or semolina flour, and bake for about 34 minutes in this case. Shape, size, and temperature determine that. Whole grain flours sometimes darken quickly, too, so I need to watch throughout the bake so that I can turn the oven down if necessary.

Removed from the oven, and cooled on a rack, they're ready to slice. Note the difference between the two scoring methods. Also note that my scoring wasn't quite enough to accommodate the full oven spring. The crust has torn beyond the edge of the cut on all three loaves. I could have avoided that with a longer or deeper slash, additional score marks, or by allowing the loaves additional time for their final rise.

Still, a little tearing there isn't a problem. More of an issue is when there's a blowout along a weak seam - often one not apparent earlier - which just looks a little uglier. It'll still taste great, of course, but those are the loaves I avoid giving away.

Inside, it's a soft, tender crumb, without any large pockets. For a grain-filled loaf like this, that's my preference. When still very fresh, I like a slice plain, or with a spread of butter. It's also great for sandwiches, just lightly toasted. Any remaining after a few days will end up as croutons, French toast, or a bread pudding.

* * * * *

¹I don't always do this. My default is to start a poolish with 450g flour, then figure out the rest the next day, depending on what my schedule looks like.

²It should be about 1/8 tsp., but I didn't bother measuring.

³Exceptions include pizza dough and English muffins. The former gets only folding, but no kneading. The latter gets virtually no handling at all.

⁴This is important. Refractory brick is intended for high-temperature applications, so it won't explode in the oven. Common brick, which is cheaper and easier to find, can't promise that. The smaller thickness is nice because it's not as heavy. Too much more weight on here, and I wouldn't be certain the oven rack could take the strain.

⁵Enriched breads, with milk, eggs, and sugar that mighty burn, bake at lower temperatures, and generally not on the hearth. Bagels usually go in around 475-500°F, directly on the stone. Pizzas bake at this oven's full blast, 550°F, on a pizza stone. (It's a more level surface than the bricks.) At that temperature, a pizza is ready in 8 minutes. If I could bake them hotter and faster, I would, but this oven cost enough that I'm not monkeying with it.

Onion bagels.

2010-12-31T13:49:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

Nothing quite like fresh bagels. I'm really beginning to get the hang of these:

Onion, and a real treat. As I don't make them as often as I (perhaps) should, I'm still working through the best process. Tips that I can, for now, recommend:

Use a high-protein bread flour. I've mostly switched to King Arthur's all-purpose for breads, since I get good results and a slightly crustier crust. Sometimes, though, when that extra gluten's important - chewy bagels, or breads loaded with non-structural flours and grains - bread flour's worth using.
Retard the shaped bagels in the refrigerator (or winter garage) overnight. Using a pre-ferment gives great flavor, but tends to a softer dough, which isn't ideal for bagels. The cold also helps prevent them from expanding too much when boiling, so that they stay nice and chewy inside.
Along those lines: allow minimal rising. They'll puff, and still be tasty, but less bagel-y. An hour of primary fermentation seems ideal.
Use a low hydration. Hamelman recommends 58%, but I bumped it down to 55%, since the onions contribute extra moisture. I'll have to fiddle around for regular bagels, but I have been happy with the 58% benchmark in the past. This makes for a tough dough to work - and it really needs some serious kneading - so a stand mixer is essential here.
Bake on stone. There's some uneven coloration here, since my firebrick arrangement can only accommodate a dozen bagels (at 900g flour for the batch), giving a browner crust around the edges. But overall, they're better-looking than any I've ever made on sheet pans, and surprisingly easy to move about on a peel.
Make friends. These are amazing they day they're made, but get a little tough to slice by the time two people can work through a dozen. I could bake fewer, but a full dozen at once - like making two loaves of bread - is just a few minutes more work. Really. And who'd turn these down?

Bannetons and soakers.

2010-10-16T18:56:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Bread. Good stuff's hard to find around here, it seems, so I bake most of what we eat.^{1, 2} This is not, of course, unusual - I've been baking bread for the past dozen years or so - but I've been making steady progress ever since. I started using the Tassajara Bread Book, so beloved of crunchy hippies, and the Joy of Cooking. Both are fair enough for a place to start, and will get you far enough to make soft-textured loaves with a fine crumb that's delicious lightly toasted, spread with butter and jam.

But I couldn't do much else with that. Crusts were soft, and sometimes thick. The color was always a dull, pale brown. Baguettes were an impossibility, but I didn't know why.

The big step came with the no-knead recipe Mark Bittman wrote about in his Minimalist column. Crisp crust! Tender, airy, irregular crumb! No more confusing kneading!³ Suddenly, I could make more than kind of bread. I don't make that recipe much anymore, but I do use the container baking method from time to time. Two loaf pans, held together like a clamshell with binder clips, are my preferred method for sandwich loaves.

Now I'm following Jeffrey Hamelman's lead. His book, Bread, is for serious home bakers and professionals, and it really rewards precision and care. Those breads I can't bake now are so only because I haven't had the practice - I'll get to brioche when I get there, but it's not top priority.

Today's new experiment was with soaked grains, inspired when a friend asked for some advice on moving beyond the basic no-knead bread recipe. I've been making breads with a variety of flours for a long time, but other than rolled oats, large grains had never been in there. Now, though, they will be.

Soaking's stupid-easy. Soak grains overnight in water, and add to dough. Then they aren't texturally offensive, but flavorful and part of the bread. Rolled oats are never going in un-soaked again.

More specifically, you need to account for the weight of the grains when calculating water and salt. Any water that's not going into a pre-ferment goes here, as does all of the salt. Salt slows enzymatic and microbial activity, so there's no unexpected sourness. Make it at the same time as a pre-ferment - I like poolishes - and let 'em sit out, side by side. Here, I used 5% rolled oats and 5% bulgur, which are good soaked in cold water. Wheat and rye berries, being much tougher, would need boiling water to soften sufficiently.

The rest of the dough was 80% all-purpose flour, 10% whole wheat flour, 10% whole rye flour, and 69% hydration. My usual method is to use 50% pre-fermented flour, as a poolish at 100% hydration. If I'd been using more whole grains than 10%, I might have needed to use a drier pre-ferment to have enough moisture to accommodate the soaking.

Knead, rise, fold, etc. I let the loaves do their final proof in bannetons:

I love these things. They're not cheap, but the resulting loaves look fantastic. I've found that I'm better off slashing these and moving them into the oven earlier than I would other loaves, because getting a good-looking score pattern's not my forte. (Again, practice. I can't get enough.)

The bannetons - or brotformen, auf Deutsch - came from Fante's. I use these large round ones for my typical 450g loaves⁴, but I have a pair of smaller rounds that get occasional use, as well as a triangle and a torus that were gifts. I don't bake in them as often, but the resulting loaves are pretty sweet.

As for this one:

Aside from the dark flecks from the bulgur, you can't tell there are whole grains in here. They're seamless in the crumb. Flavorful, but otherwise invisible.

Perfect for tonight's dinner: lentils, kale, and some fresh Brie.

* * * * *

¹Sometimes, we're able to buy good loaves from Gemelli Bakery in State College, but that's limited by: season (they attend our weekly growers' market); availability (they're not there every week; we're not able to make it every Friday, either); and demand (since they do sell out). Gemelli bakes some loaves that I'm not up to speed on - especially big, airy loaves like their ciabatta - so that's an occasional treat.

²One of the best bread-related moments we've had: Sharon's sister's sheer befuddlement that we had made Thanksgiving stuffing from a loaf specifically baked for that purpose. She simply couldn't get over it - never mind that I'd made everything else on the table from scratch.

³Kneading's tough. Not the actual act, but knowing when to and when not to. Knowing how much. When you only bake bread every once in a while - and unless you're baking professionally, once a week is frequent - acquiring the sense for it takes forever.

⁴I think of them in terms of the total flour weight. Final loaf weight's about a pound and a half.

Chestnuts.

2010-10-07T13:32:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

Chestnut season is whenever I can get my hands on them, which isn't often. But Melissa surprised me - at her wedding reception, no less - with a bag full of fresh ones picked from her parents' yard. (I think.) I was a little slow to dealing with them, but now there are enough to enjoy with several meals.

They can be kind of a pain to peel, so I'm glad they're an at-most-once-a-year deal. I'm certain there's a more effective way to do this, but the traditional way is something like this:

Cut an X into each nut's flat (or flattest) side, pitching any with obvious insect damage.

Boil them for a few minutes, then leave sitting in the hot water as you peel them, one by one. The shells and skins remain flexible when warm, so you can tear them off with fingernails. Be ready for the occasional shell edge slipping under a thumbnail, which feels about as good as you might imagine. Be ready for raisinized fingertips. Be ready for tedium.

Then it's time to trim out any bad sections, insect larvae that've just been boiled to death, etc. This should leave you with a pile of sweet, golden nutmeats:

Now cook 'em, freeze 'em, or whatever. We added a handful to dinner, of course. One of my favorite uses is to add coarsely chopped chestnuts to polenta, added near the end of cooking so that they retain some texture. I didn't quite do that last night, but it was close. I had some fresh shell beans from the garden - the season's last - that I'd been meaning to use, and a big head of broccoli that Sharon had reserved for roasting.

An onion, diced, cooked in plenty of butter, with the beans added when they got soft and a bit brown. Some duck stock from a bird I'd turned into confit a week or two ago to braise the beans to tenderness, with more to enrich the polenta. (More butter and some Parmigiano do wonders for the polenta.) We had some fresh thyme, left over from curing this year's olives, so I added that, and the chestnuts, coarsely chopped, when the beans were coming near tender. The broccoli, after a toss with olive oil and salt, went in a hot oven until tender and a little brown. It's even better with cauliflower.

Top with a poached egg - since there isn't much that couldn't use one on top - and a light grating of cheese:

Perhaps the rest of the chestnuts'll have a repeat performance this weekend.

A pair of interesting chestnut facts:

Chestnuts, being highly perishable, need to live in the fridge, and even then they don't last forever. But Harold McGee notes that freshly gathered chestnuts benefit from a few days at room temperature, during which time some of the starches convert to sugar.
Alan Davidson points out that chestnut meal was the original ingredient in polenta, before the introduction of corn from the New World. Small, but flavorful - and free - wild chestnuts would have been the source, and were also used to stretch wheat and other flours in lean times.

Fingerlings.

2010-09-05T10:22:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Root vegetables always carry an element of surprise. Carrots and parsnips will twist about each other if they grow too close together. Sometimes they spur off new finger-like taproots. It's impossible to tell, until you've pulled them, whether the turnips and radishes look perfect or terrible. The size and number of potatoes underground is always a mystery.

And fingerling potatoes will sometimes do this:

It's a result of inconsistent watering, given our severe lack of rain this season. But, still, a great harvest of spuds, and since I rarely bother peeling potatoes, not a big deal at all.

Jeow.

2010-08-03T20:41:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Summer! It means ripe tomatoes - including the first Green Zebras from the vines today - and chillis and eggplant, all just right for Lao-style jeow. The word means something akin to sauce or dip, particularly in the salsa vein. Something very thin, like fish sauce¹, has nam in there someplace, which is the word for water or water-like stuff.

Anyhow. Jeow is a dip that you eat with balls of Lao/Thai sticky rice², and it's made from whatever's at hand. Start with some good fresh vegetables:

Here: tomatoes, eggplant, chillis, and garlic, all on skewers. Scallions and holy basil for later. Not pictured: fish sauce. If I'd had shallots nearby, they'd be ready to go, too.

The key, as far as I'm concerned, is fire. Not just the gas flame at the stove, but charcoal. I don't even bother with the grill, but cook it all right over the chimney starter, which is insanely hot. The trick is to cook the vegetables until soft enough to pound in a mortar, and the high heat works to char the hell out of the skins. For one, it makes them easy to peel. Even better is the glorious smokiness that results.

Tomatoes don't take but a few moments, and the chillis just a hint longer. Garlic and eggplant, though, take enough time to get awesomely smoky. I keep going until the skins are turning to ash at the tips, until they feel soft to the touch. If I could manage it with the tomatoes, I would, but there's a limit to how long I can watch before fearing they'll plummet to the coals, irretrievable.

Then it's peel skins, mash coarsely in a mortar, season with fish sauce, basil, cilantro, etc. Eat with sticky rice. I could pretty much call this a meal:

Eggplant on the left, with chillis, garlic, scallions, holy basil, fish sauce. Tomato on the right, with garlic, scallions, holy basil, fish sauce. These are the new summer standards.

* * * * *

¹Which is a condiment, really, and not a sauce. But "fish condiment" sounds even less appetizing, or else just confusing.

²Not to be confused with sushi rice, which is somewhat sticky, or Japanese sweet rice - since it's also sometimes called sweet rice - which is stickier than sushi rice. Lao sticky rice is super-sticky, requires hours of advance soaking, and must be steamed. But it's unique and delicious, and maybe my favorite rice. Which is really saying something.

Bitter melon!

2010-08-01T17:27:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Man, leave town for a few days, and this is what awaits:

Tomatoes. (Lots.) Tomatillos, zucchini, mini red bell peppers, jalapeno peppers, Lao eggplant, dragon's tongue beans, Sultan's golden crescent beans, tongue of fire beans, onions, scallions, edamame, blackberries, raspberries, and that knobbly fellow in front, the bitter melon. First one of the season, but they're starting to come on strong. And, thus far, looking healthier than I'm used to seeing my cucumbers.

Fingers crossed?

Duck, you sucker.

2010-07-17T16:54:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

It rained! After nearly three weeks with nary a drop, we've finally had some significant rains recently. Not what we really need, unfortunately, but enough to lend a little help to the regular watering schedule. Rain plus heat means that things are moving along quickly. Flowers, including cosmos, bachelor's buttons, snapdragons, nasturtiums, love-in-a-mist, marigolds, and, uh, broccoli raab, are in bloom:

The peppers are big, bushy, and fruiting:

Most are from saved seed, and since peppers are more prone to cross-pollination than tomatoes, beans, or some of the others I'm also trying, it's interesting to see what's happening. The jalapenos, for example, are shaped a bit different, and the ones I picked earlier today are fruitier in taste, and less grassy, than those from last year. Near the same heat level, though.

The watermelon may or may not be from saved seeds. I didn't trust the saved seeds, so planted some that were left over from last year, but just about everything came up. And they're loving the heat so far:

Among the other so-far successes: giant, vigorous buckwheat in flower; sweet carrots big enough to eat as I thin the row; new potatoes; big pole beans flowering like mad. And tomatoes taller than me:

The trellis is more than six feet high, and the Sun Golds are just about there.

The main reason they're so tall is that I'm carefully pruning indeterminate tomatoes.¹ With big, long vines, they need support - mason twine and greenhouse clips, in my case, hanging from a wooden bar - and benefit from pruning off unnecessary suckers. Like these:

See those little stems growing out between the main stalk and the leaf branches? They're called suckers, and represent a new growth point and vine that'll produce more leaves, more flowers, and more fruit. If I lived in a tropical paradise, with all the time in the world to let these grow, that'd be no problem. But the extra energy necessary to grow them means that they'll slow down fruit production, and give smaller tomatoes. One plant can only do so much.

Pinch or snip them off, and the plant will devote more of its energy to the existing growth points:

It's a tangle of hard-to-see and harder-to-photograph little plant parts, but careful inspection reveals tiny developing leaves, flower buds, and more continually unfurling. It's the heart of the plant's growth, and damaging it means you're limited to what's already below it. Generally speaking, you want to be extra cautious to avoid damage, though clipping the top at the end of the season can force any unripe fruit to ripen more quickly.

For the most part, it's straightforward. Pinch the unwanted suckers. Leave only the ones you intend to keep and train up. I keep one sucker per plant, and plant them with enough space so as to avoid crowding. Every so often, there's one that I've missed, that's just too large to remove, so I'll train that one, as well.

Be aware that there's a pinching procedure. Tiny suckers can simply be pinched off with fingertips, though doing so too close to the main growth point is asking for trouble, especially if you've misidentified what you're supposed to remove. (It happens.) Larger suckers can be broken off, but it's a two-step snap. Bend it left, until you hear the stem break, then bend it the other way to break it off completely. Just going in one direction runs the risk of stripping a swath of the stem's outer layer away, opening up the plant to infection.

Too big, and you need shears or another support.

Ideally, these are the scars you'll see:

Here you can see two different-sized scars, likely each pinched off at the same time. One was tiny, the other a bit larger. The smaller ones, I find, are more likely to give you this:

Sometimes, a sucker grows back from where it had been pinched off. So you need to check again, lest you miss a new, two-foot tomato plant bursting forth. Relatively easy, right?

If you're growing hybrids, sure. My Sun Golds are clockwork-level predictable. But I can't save seed from them, and there are a number of heirlooms that I really like growing and eating. The problem with heirlooms, though, is that they're less predictable. Whereas a hybrid almost always sends forth suckers from between the leaves and the stalk, with leaves branching out on one side, then later the other, heirlooms sometimes give you this:

Leaves twinned off at the same point. Sometimes no big deal. Sometimes, those two suckers are the only remaining growth point, and what had been the growth point is now just a flower cluster. Pinch off those suckers, and that's all the plant you've got.²

The other, just as vexing problem is this:

It's a sucker. Growing from the end of a fruit cluster.

Not at all where you'll hear about suckers forming, but heirlooms do it all the time. Thus far, I've found them on Black Plums, Wapsipinicon Peaches, Green Zebras (pictured), and Jaune Flammes. I've yet to find them elsewhere, but won't be surprised when I do.

* * * * *

¹I have one determinate variety this year, as an experiment. We'll see how it goes.

²My Black Plums insist on doing this. I don't know why, but I have to watch them very carefully because of it. If they weren't such fine tomatoes, I might be bothered.

First tomatoes.

2010-07-05T19:18:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

No photo, but we harvested our first tomatoes of the season today. Five ripe red Stupice tomatoes. The first of the Sun Golds will be ready tomorrow.

Not bad for five-and-a-half weeks from transplant.

July's garden.

2010-07-02T10:49:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Things have been dry here. Not quite bone-dry, but given that the 10-day weather forecast is devoid of rain - and that's been pretty much par for the course - it's about as drastic a difference from last year as we might imagine.¹ Warmer than average. Dry enough to keep all but the most vigorous weeds down. Full of (minor) mistakes. The kind you learn from, but aren't interesting enough to explain to a second person.²

But, hey, it's a garden!

Is this impressive? I have no idea. It's green, though, and already producing food. Peas, radishes, turnips, and broccoli raab are mostly through. Not these, though:

Radish seedpods. Rat-tailed Radish. In the world of seed catalogs, that's an unusual name. They crunch like snap peas, but taste like radishes. I prefer them raw, because cooking seems to eliminate the radish spiciness.

What makes them especially appealing is that, unlike other related vegetables, bolting to seed is a good thing. Usually, hot weather results in plants like radishes becoming woody, staying small, and turning bitter before they plump to a size worth harvesting. Problem solved.

Peas haven't been thrilled with hot weather, but we've had a decent harvest anyhow.

Not enough peas to freeze for the future, but plenty to enjoy fresh. The plants and trellis come out of the ground this weekend to make room for more soybeans.

Other plants happy that summer's here? Tomatoes in flower:

Shiso that refused to germinate³ last year, but sprouted in a forgotten planter:

And this one:

Bonus points if you can identify it.⁴

Flowers are thriving, too. Hydrangeas that we planted two years ago are finally flowering, despite the limited shade we're able to provide:

And the hops planted last year are producing cones enough to harvest:

* * * * *

¹2009 was very cold, very wet, and the sort of year that benefitted certain vegetables (say, peas) and frustrated others. (Hey, eggplant!)

²That said, I've been taking notes for next year. Of course.

³Shiso is one of those finicky seeds that requires a chilling period to set the germination machinery going. I've never had good luck with them. After this, though, I'm planning to plant lavender seeds in a planter and leave it on the deck all winter, just to see if I get some viable seedlings come next spring.

⁴Momordica charantia. Bitter melon. If you haven't learned to love it, you really should.

Deer-free.

2010-05-16T18:41:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

For those who've missed it, it's full-blown gardening season. Around here, at any rate. Gardening + work + bare minimum of effort required to keep dog sane and house from burning down = long days. But it all starts to feel fine once the harvesting begins. We've had a few odds and ends already - hop shoots, which are a bit like asparagus; dandelion and chicory greens; some rhubarb¹ - but we're starting to get strawberries:

Behind them are the radishes and turnips in the deck-protected planters:

They're tiny, but quick to grow. The downside of planters is that the soil in them is more subject to surrounding air temperature, so seeds here will germinate later than those directly in the earth. The upside, of course, is the ease of harvest and rather effective critter-proofing. If by next year I'm able to construct a set of cold frames, I'll actually be able to put out extra-early plantings of cold-tolerant vegetables to enjoy before the main crops kick off.

That said, I doubt anything can beat the hops out of the gate.

I noticed shoots emerging at the very start of April. Within a week, I'd managed to cobble together a support structure that now, six weeks later, isn't big enough to accommodate the most vigorous bines. Honestly, though, I was rather busy with the rest of the garden. After all, it's all now in here:

Though the wire mesh guard at the bottom isn't entirely finished - there's evidence of rabbits getting in and nibbling a bit - and we have yet to stain it², it's essentially complete. Fifty feet square, four and a half feet tall with deer-deterring cables three feet higher, enclosing eight distinct garden plots (each thirteen feet square) and a central picnic space. Seven of eight plots are currently tilled, with the last half-complete.³ This year's seedlings, beneath fluorescent lights in the basement, are doing better than they ever have before, looking in perfect shape to give us plenty to eat, despite this year's smaller garden.

And look:

Peas safe from deer browsing. So worth it.

* * * * *

¹Which, as this morning's breakfast can attest, makes for some fine scones. Chop into ¼-inch lengths, toss with sugar, and keep 'em raw. They hold their shape during cooking, but soften up nicely, with their sour flavor intact.

²Enough free time plus two days of rain-free, warm weather seems too much to ask for at the moment.

³In order to keep my head from exploding - it's best, when tackling a major project like a large fence, to maximize its enclosed area and minimize its bill of materials; square is both simple and efficient to construct - the garden is in a new location. So all that ground tilled before? Unused. (Bound for next year's orchard.) Our rototiller? Broken halfway through. Our neighbor's rototiller? Semi-functional, with frustrating carburetor trouble. So it's down to tiller number three to get the job done. Backs and shoulders, for those wondering, are rather sore these days.

Pictures from halfway around the world.

2010-02-16T16:42:00.001-05:00

Lewisburg.

Sharon and I spent most of January in southeast Asia. It's a grand sort of a place for a vacation, especially if you consider that there were endless options for exploration. Some appealed greatly - and others not at all¹ - and while there might not be something for absolutely everyone, anyone who has the inkling of an idea that they'd like to see the region will be able to make it a worthwhile trip.

And the opportunities for photographs... oh my.

So here are a bundle, with minimal commentary. I'm not quite sure how else to do this.²

That Luang

Vientiane, Lao PDR
That Luang, the Golden Stupa, the major symbol of Laos. The top alone is covered in - quite literally - half a ton of gold leaf.

The Buddha and the Phayanyak

Vientiane, Lao PDR
The Phayanyak, the seven-headed king of the nagas and both benevolent and vengeful spirit of the river and of water, protects the Buddha from the rain and floods as he meditates.

That Dam

Vientiane, Lao PDR
That Dam, the Black Stupa. Once covered in gold, now black after foreign armies plundered Vientiane.

Naga at Wat Si Saket

Vientiane, Lao PDR
The mighty naga, river spirit. Laos, a country deeply connected to the Mekong River, adores these spirits unlike anywhere else.

Buddhas at Wat Si Saket

Vientiane, Lao PDR
The only major wat to survive the last sacking of Vientiane, Wat Si Saket is as worn as one would expect from more than 150 years of use. And it is ever so beautiful for it.

Flowers for Fa Ngum

Vientiane, Lao PDR
Fa Ngum, founder of the kingdom of Lan Xang, of the Million Elephants, still receives offerings, some six hundred years after his death. Take that, whoever happened to be ruling bits of Europe in the 14th century.

Haw Phra Kaeo

Vientiane, Lao PDR
The Phra Kaeo, the Emerald Buddha, hasn't been here since being taken to Siam as a prize more than two centuries ago. Memories here, it seems, are long.

Buddha at Haw Phra Kaeo

Vientiane, Lao PDR
"Calling the Earth to Witness" pose.

Talaat Khua Din

Vientiane, Lao PDR
Sticky rice baskets. The price is what you're willing to pay.

Plumeria

Vientiane, Lao PDR
Plumeria flowers. Naturalized, not native, but the national flower nonetheless.

Karst

North of Vang Vieng, Lao PDR
Karst formations as seen from the road. Stunning, but difficult to climb, both on foot and by bus.

Mekong River

Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
The mighty Mekong. Massive, powerful, and deceptively calm.

Stencil work at Wat Xieng Thong

Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
Intricate, elegant, and just one of the many impressive works of art in Luang Prabang's Wat Xieng Thong.

Buddhas at Wat Xieng Thong

Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
Statues of the Buddha, beside the funeral cart of the last Lao king. The last one to get a funeral, anyhow.

Phou Si

Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
Most folks, given a strategic location with a steep hill alongside a major river and a significant tributary, would built a fortress. Instead, there's a charming wat here.

Lao chillis at Talaat Phou Si

Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
Lao food, generally speaking, isn't spicy. They make up for it by eating these little firebombs directly, like a throat-catching palate cleanser.

Ridgeline view

Near Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
It's a long climb up here. That's the Mekong in the distance, far down in the valley.

Lotus flowers

Ban Long Lao Kao, Lao PDR
Still, stagnant, ugly water; clean, beautiful flowers. It's no wonder the lotus is such a powerful symbol for Buddhist enlightenment.

Tad Kuang Si

Near Luang Prabang, Lao PDR
A mighty waterfall, in the midst of the Lao jungle, surrounded by calm, turquoise blue pools.

Sala Kaew Koo

Nong Khai, Thailand
The jaws of life, the entrance to the Wheel of Life at the Sala Kaew Koo sculpture park. It is, in fact, even crazier in person.

Wat Pho

Bangkok, Thailand
Large, brightly colored, even flashy. But somehow, Wat Pho doesn't seem terribly busy, at least not by Bangkok standards.

Animal statues at Wat Pho

Bangkok, Thailand
I'm guessing that they're stylized lions.

Chedis at Wat Pho

Bangkok, Thailand
Massive, covered in brightly colored ceramic mosaics, and restored every half-century or so.

Buddhas at Wat Pho

Bangkok, Thailand
Serene, secluded, and a fine place for relaxing or meditating on one's own in the very center of Bangkok.

Grand Palace

Bangkok, Thailand
Grand, indeed. Photographs can't begin to capture the overwhelming experience that is a visit to Bangkok's Grand Palace. And that's not counting the hordes of tourists and devout Thais all angling to get a look at the Emerald Buddha.

* * * * *

¹One of our favorite games during the trip was "Which Family Member Would Hate This Most?" Try it yourself sometime!

²This is, of course, a tiny subset of the whole mess of photos - and just of mine. Combined with Sharon's, edited, trimmed, and all that to fit onto a single CD, it's about 300 photos. This selection is halfway to random, because developing an actual narrative would veer a lot closer to 300 than 25.

2010's garden starts soon.

2010-01-28T10:41:00.001-05:00

Lewisburg.

Sharon and I have just recently returned from three weeks of winter-free vacation in Thailand and Laos. Pictures, of course, will be forthcoming, once the hellish task of sorting through them is done.

In the meantime, though, it's also been high season for planning 2010's garden. Things are a bit different this year, in no small part because I've built¹ a fence to keep the critters out. This means that I have a smaller area to work with - time, effort, and money limited the overall fence size - but that I'll spend far less energy repairing damage to deer netting.

Since I knew I'd be gone for much of January, I made a serious effort to finish the planning before leaving, so that I could order my seeds before the more interesting varieties were out of stock.² Most of them have arrived now, and it's genuinely exciting to know that I'll be able to turn those little packets into an enormous quantity of food.

And/or pretty flowers.

Last week- not that I noticed until this morning - the New York Times asked a bunch of gardeners what had them looking forward to 2010. Here's what I'm thinking about:

SEEDS OF SUCCESS
Blauwschokkers Pea. Seed Savers lists it as the "Blue Podded Shelling Pea", but I happen to like the Dutch name. Tall, productive, and both ornamental and delicious. The blue-purple pods and purple-and-white flowers are striking, and the intense color makes them a snap to harvest. I've saved seed from last year, but not enough to account for the extra space I'm allotting it in the new garden. After all, none of it stuck around long enough to be frozen last year.

Chervena Chushka Pepper. Bell peppers have fallen from favor around here. (Except the miniature reds. They're sweet, flavorful, early, and productive.) It's such a rare occasion to get one to ripen without soft spots, or worse, and they take forever. But the sweet, tapered eastern European types? So much less hassle, but with all the sweetness and flavor. They were even a grand success in 2009's abysmal pepper season.

Hakurei Turnip. A hybrid, which means I'll be purchasing new seed every year, but oh so worth it. Sweet, white salad turnips, like radishes without the bite and with better-tasting greens. Most end up a raw nibble around here, though they take well to a bit of stir-frying or gentle braising, too.

German Butterball Potato. As long as I can get good seed potatoes, these will always have a place in the garden. Fine potato flavor, with a texture that's about the middle on the waxy-to-floury spectrum. Well-watered, they produce plenty of large, russeted spuds that keep well even in my crummy faux root cellar. In fact, I think I might have to roast up some for dinner tonight.

Long Island Cheese Pumpkin. Another surprise success in 2009. I didn't watch closely enough, and let two of the good-looking fruits turn soft and unpleasant against the sodden ground, but the other two I brought inside were big, meaty, and delicious. The flesh is fibrous, which means it's not the best all-purpose winter squash, but roasted until tender and pureed in the food processor, it makes wonderful pumpkin pies, soups, gnocchi, and more. We keep pre-measured bags frozen and ready to go for winter warmers.

True Red Cranberry Bean. This fellow had a place in our very first garden, and most since. Prolific pole beans with fine flavor, they're our go-to standard for winter chilis, especially with those many jars of homegrown canned tomatoes slowly disappearing from the basement shelves. The trick this year was to set aside enough for replanting before they disappeared into the pot. (Especially since they're not available from Seed Savers this year.)

THE NEW GUY
Ziar Breadseed Poppy. Poppies for poppyseeds? Sweet! This variety, according to the Fedco folks, has been bred to eliminate the vents that the plants usually use to disperse their seed, making the seeds a snap to harvest. Plus, the pink and pale red flowers ought to look sharp out there.

NEVER AGAIN
Cauliflower. It's a favorite vegetable of mine - especially roasted - but maddening in the garden. Hungry for rich soil, jealous about its space, and often steadfastly refusing to head up, it's just a nightmare. (I've had better luck with watermelon, another headache for so many gardeners.) Broccoli's not as aggravating, but I'm forgoing the both of them in favor of broccoli raab, which is so much more rewarding.

SHOPPING BAG
To keep my head from exploding - and my seed shipping costs from eclipsing actual seed costs - I limit myself to just a few seed vendors. Our vegetables and flowers come mostly from Seed Savers Exchange (heirlooms, with plenty of fascinating finds), Johnny's Selected Seeds (they're geared more to small-to-medium-sized organic farms, but I've a lot of success with their varieties), and Fedco Seeds (who are, by far, the least expensive, and carry a great deal of unusual and heirloom seeds). We also pick up some flowers from Jung Seed, which has also been a source for strawberries and fruit trees in the past.

* * * * *

¹Well, mostly. It's cold out there, and the last few details will have to wait until the ground thaws before I can tackle them. Still, Sharon and I were out there for hours, in sub-freezing temperatures, attaching vertical slats with a pneumatic nail gun. Now there's a task that makes you feel like you've earned the hot chocolate when you get back inside.

²Currently, they're all the ones on backorder.

Wintry foods.

2009-12-18T13:33:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

Winter. With the ice and snow and finger-numbing temperatures, it hardly seems the ideal time for bringing delicious foods in from the garden. There are a few late-season pleasures to be had, however. We had frost-sweetened Brussels sprouts around¹ Thanksgiving, and harvested some lovely cabbages from beneath two inches of ice and snow.

Braised with butter, chicken stock, and caraway seeds, they're excellent.

Last weekend, we even took the opportunity to dig carrots and parsnips before the ground turned too cold to work. Here you can see the haul - with parsnips beneath - and a fascinated dog.

The remaining parsnips will overwinter outdoors, to be dug come spring. With a little luck.

I didn't have the best year for mushroom hunting, especially since we didn't get the flush of field mushrooms that appeared in 2008. With too much work to do, escaping to the woods just hasn't been in the cards. Trips to the dog park do happen with some regularity, and it was there that I stumbled across these:

Winter mushrooms, Flammulina velutipes, are around these days. There isn't much to them, with their mild flavor and somewhat slippery texture, but free, wild, edible fungus is still exciting.

* * * * *

¹Not for. Thanksgiving, after all, is a holiday for the same old boring foods a family has every year. Is it possible to make a holiday that embraces food so lackluster in the dinner department? Yes. Yes it is.

Disturbing. Depressing. And The Big Lebowski.

2009-11-02T15:36:00.003-05:00

Lewisburg.

I've come to an interesting realization of late: I tend to use pop culture as sort of mood reinforcement. I find this odd, for a simple reason. If I'm feeling low, wouldn't it be best to watch something like The Big Lebowski?

So Sharon's been out of town for most of the last two months, the sole break being about six days back to visit and go to a conference.¹ As one might imagine, this is not conducive to good times. I do, however, make all decisions regarding pop culture consumption solely to suit my own interests. My selection of Netflix films for September and October are an odd reflection of things I might not choose to watch with anyone else.

Some of them I have no plans to watch a second time, regards of their quality or impact.²

It does make me think. In particular, about the highly depressing and disturbing things I've been interested in, and how they aren't necessarily making me feel worse. At times, it's quite the opposite - though this is a delayed effect, I find.

I've started compiling a mental list of those unusual bits of entertainment that are both brilliant - well made, formally beautiful, just truly powerful - and shocking and affecting in their subject matter. It's far from complete, but it is, I think, a list of entertainments well worth the time.

I started to think about this after renting and watching Salò, or The 120 Days of Sodom. I watched it because I wanted to have seen it, which meant that I would have to see it.³ Matthew Dessem called it "visceral" and meant it. It didn't make me vomit, as I was concerned it might, but simply watching it was an exhausting experience. It made me realize that there were other films that bothered me more, or at least very specific scenes and moments, but there is little that can match Salò in it relentless pummeling of atrocities.

Shortly before watching Salò, I watched Clean, Shaven, which was depressing overall, with simple moments that truly bothered me. That scene in Inglourious Basterds where B.J. Novak's character is scalping a dead Nazi? Hilarious. The scene in this film where the schizophrenic protagonist - from whose head the film seems to spring - shaves in front a mirror he's covered in paper, because he can't handle reflections? Horrific, and I've cut myself shaving so many times it hardly even registers. Even worse is when the sounds in his head become so bad that he's compelled to remove the transmitters he believes were implanted in him. I squirmed on the couch. It was hard to keep focused on the screen.

If you were to tell me that Clean, Shaven is the most accurate portrait of what it's like to be schizophrenic out there, I'll believe it. If there's something even moreso, I'm not sure I can handle it.

There are more conventional films about mental breakdowns, like Insomnia. I watched it the other night. It was pretty much as I remembered. It does make for an interesting comparison to the American remake, directed by Christopher Nolan, especially when you consider the points raised in the Criterion Contraption essay. (Scroll to the bottom for those, specifically.) Those differences between the characters played by Skarsgård and Pacino sum up everything that's gut-wrenching about the original.

If you're looking for gut-wrenching, though, it might be impossible to outdo Kurt Kuenne's Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father.⁴ It's a documentary, and every painful detail is easily accessible with a brief Google search. The general consensus is that you should go into the film with as little background as possible, to let it sweep you along. Maybe. It's hard to say, because it's firmly in the category of things that can't be unexperienced, and I only know how I saw it.

I started to get choked up in the first minute or two of the film, I think. I don't precisely recall the time, though I do know the moment, the first voice that begins to break. (The man with his young son. It's in the trailer. It's seared into my brain.) Though I've no doubt there's someone out there who won't cry at this film, I - like damn near everyone who's seen it - spent the bulk of its running time with tears in my eyes. Crushing. Harrowing. Touching. Powerful. Raw. Pick your adjective.

There are a variety of summaries out there, all dancing about the details to keep some of the surprise. My version: Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne's best friend, Andrew Bagby, is murdered by an ex-girlfriend, who it turns out is pregnant with his son. Kuenne interviews family, friends, coworkers, and anyone he can find to paint a portrait of a father for a son who'll never meet him. If this were fiction, it would be an astounding picture of the interconnectedness of people around a single person. But it's a true story, and one with surprises that would be pushing the limits of one's suspension of disbelief if it weren't.

Stan Brakhage's The Act of Seeing with One’s Own Eyes is utterly true, raw, and composed of shocking subject matter - autopsy footage - but it's nothing like Dear Zachary. In a way, because of its formal beauty, it's kind of lovely. The emotions it drums up are complex and sometimes at odds, but I actually enjoy it enough to watch it from time to time. There's a strange comfort in it that I can't quite get my head around. It soothes for reasons unknown.

So does Bonnie "Prince" Billy's album, I See a Darkness. (Title track especially. Album version here; powerful Johnny Cash version here.) It's not unlike listening to the Eels album Electro-Shock Blues, particularly Dead of Winter. Or most anything by Arab Strap.

But films tend to strike me more powerfully. Perhaps because they're just a more immersive experience. Sometimes there are scenes that are just a punch in the gut.

The one that always comes back to me is from Gillo Pontecorvo's The Battle of Algiers. This bothered me three years ago, when I wrote:

"The Battle of Algiers looks almost like a documentary, which is why the vicious scenes of torture - brief, not bloody, but looking entirely real - turn my stomach. Even more so is the scene, just before the torture, where FLN bombs explode in the bleachers at the horse races, a place filled with wealthy French spectators. An enraged mob converges on a small Algerian boy selling concessions, beating him unconscious until the police lift him out. You don't see any of the explicit violence, as it's hidden by the bodies of the mob, but the scene is so stark and brutal that I find it extremely difficult to watch."

Great film. Stomach-churning moment.

There's the moment in David Cronenberg's A History of Violence where Viggo Mortenson's character, Tom Stall, smashes in a thug's face with a glass coffee carafe. And we see the bloody aftermath. Or when Mortenson's character, Nikolai, in Cronenberg's Eastern Promises cuts the fingertips off a murdered man in the process of making the corpse unidentifiable. In fact, Cronenberg's films are a treasure trove for this sort of thing. The scenes of Videodrome in Videodrome. Beverly unveiling his new surgical tools in Dead Ringers. Oh, pretty much all of Crash.

Michael Haneke specializes in this sort of thing. The scene I think of most - though it's just one moment of many - is in Time of the Wolf, when Ben is standing before the bonfire. You can see a snippet of it in the trailer, but it's in context, at the end of the film, that it becomes something that sucks the air from your lungs.

See also: when Frank murders a small boy who hears his name in Once Upon a Time in the West. The abandoned war dead on the beach in The Burmese Harp. The aggregate of moments of Caden losing Olive in Synecdoche, New York. The old shirt, after Jack's murder, in Brokeback Mountain. The story of the mulberry trees in Taste of Cherry.

Antoine Doinel, sitting in the classroom as we see his parents, his teacher, and the principal outside, through the glass, in The 400 Blows. Which isn't as rough as the rest, but Truffaut certainly knew how to play a scene for emotional impact.

And Terry Gilliam knows how to monkey with emotions, too, though he so carefully lightens the moment when it's needed. When selecting an actor to play a government torturer, he picks Michael Palin, who's pretty much the nicest man imaginable. He's almost as charming as William Powell playing Nick Charles in The Thin Man, only not fictional. Johnny Depp plays Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, because there's no way you can't like the man, and it's essential that we love him.⁵ (Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean, anyone?)

He chose Jeff Bridges as the overdosing junkie dad in Tideland, because any role where Jeff Bridges plays a long-in-the-tooth hippie type instantly conjures up thoughts of the Dude. And you can't not like the Dude. (Gilliam readily admits as much.)

And I'm back to The Big Lebowski. I think I'm in a mood to watch it now.

* * * * *

¹And I spent 90% of that time down with H1N-fun.

²Often because of that impact. Of course.

³Mark Twain once remarked something about classics being books that everyone wanted to have read, but no one wanted to read. For years, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare has been sitting on my bookshelf. I doubt that I will ever read it, but I'll be damned if I'm going to get rid of it, or relegate it to a box in the basement.

⁴Here's the trailer, albeit in crummy YouTube quality. (The website's got it smaller, but in higher quality.) I find it very difficult to watch now, having seen the film, though it's hard to say what its impact was before I knew all of the details.

⁵See also: Bill Murray in Where the Buffalo Roam. Or, for late-period Murray, in the films of Wes Anderson and Jim Jarmusch.

Snow? Seriously?

2009-10-15T17:53:00.003-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's snowing here today. Mid-October. As of mere moments ago:

And we just had our first frost - light enough to spare at least half of the zinnias, even - yesterday morning. Bizarre.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so irritating if I had fewer posts to set on the fence you can see in the background.

Watermelon spots.

2009-09-20T16:53:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

I'm growing some watermelons, with some measure of success this year. Blacktail Mountain is a short-season variety - relatively - which gives me a little leeway at this latitude, especially in an often cool and wet summer.

Also cool: the ones I've grown have these occasional, fascinating patterns of spots and spirals.

I've no idea why, but they do make for an interesting sight. As near as I can tell, they're not indicative of a problem, since it doesn't match the symptoms of any watermelon diseases I know of. Plus, the fruits are mighty tasty. Perhaps I'll have more melons, more spots, and more of an idea next year.

Fungal frenemies.

2009-09-15T18:00:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Tomatoes!

So, they're actually long gone at this point. I noticed the late blight a little over two weeks ago, and this year's massive tomato plants - the Sun Gold vines were probably ten feet long - were done for. Torn out of the ground, stuffed into trash bags, left to rot. There's even been some evidence of it on the potatoes, but not too much, and I'm culling them as I find them.

Even so, this was a bumper year for both crops. My off the cuff guess is that I brought in around fifty pounds of potatoes, and far more tomatoes than that. Not counting those eaten fresh, we have twenty-seven quarts and seven pints canned, and three half-gallon and four quart jars (plus a few) dried. If that's not enough to enjoy until next season, then my problems aren't with tomato production.

But, you know, not all fungi are bad. Puffballs, for example, are a pleasant surprise:

I'm fairly certain that this is an example of either Calvatia craniformis, the skull-shaped puffball, or Calvatia cyathiformis. (Hard to say without a mature specimen.) Either way it's edible, though low on the flavor index. Granted, frying almost anything in butter helps. It's kind of like eating a savory marshmallow.

Actually, it's a lot like that. On its own, not so exciting.

But it grew in the backyard, and the whole thing weighed 280 grams - just under ten ounces. Not bad.

Wild blueberries.

2009-07-17T16:20:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Blueberries grow in our backyard. Enough that we've picked twenty-one quarts thus far this year, with more ripening as I write this, though production has started to slow. It's more than enough to keep us in blueberry pancakes, cobblers, and so on for the next year.

And yet, it was hard to resist the urge to go get more. Wild blueberries.

Last year, I'd gone hiking deep in the woods, and had come across tiny, wild blueberries. Fields of them, in among the mountain laurel and rocky terrain. There aren't many ripe ones to be found, but they're delicious for a nibble as you walk by. And this spring, in conversation with friends, the idea came up. So, it became an evening activity.

I say "activity" because, like most foraging trips, it's all a crapshoot. Even when you know a fine wild patch of something - from berries to mushrooms to whatever else seems worth the effort - you always run the risk of returning home with an empty basket. You might have estimated the wrong date for ripe fruit. The birds, bears, and others might have cleaned it out first. It might simply be a poor year.

That said, we made out reasonably well, if you consider that we went for a hike, enjoyed a picnic dinner, and came home with some blueberries. A pint and a half's worth. Enough for baked goods - scones and pancakes and turnovers - but not so many that they needed preserving. With luck, I might even convince a few seeds to sprout into new plants, which'll help cut down on the mowable lawn surface.¹

And feed the birds, too, no doubt.

* * * * *

¹I'm always on the prowl for this sort of thing.

Strawberry booze.

2009-07-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

We've had many a strawberry this year. Last time I checked in, we'd picked sixty-two quarts out of the patch. The final count - as of two weeks ago - ran up to seventy-two. We could have picked more, but after traveling out of town for a few days, the appeal of picking through lots of overripe berries had faded. There were still a few to pluck for nibbling as we walked the dog past - much like our raspberry picking for this season - but at least we could consider it done.

Plus, we'd moved into blueberry season, and they're easier to pick.

With so many strawberries, we've managed to preserve them in just about every way that comes to mind, from drying to making jam and syrup to freezing. And infusing¹ into alcohol. Now we can enjoy the flavor of the fruit without the constant vigilance for spoiled berries.

On the left, with its brilliant ruby red, is the first² batch of strawberry liqueur. The other is a strawberry ratafia made with white wine, which is distinctly colored, but nowhere near to the degree that the liqueur is. Part of that is due to using a smaller quantity of berries for the amount of liquid, though I've no doubt other factors play into it. In both cases, the strained-out berries were pale pink, worse than any off-season California strawberry you've ever seen.

Both sets had also given up a fair bit of flavor to the liquid. The ones from the liqueur had also picked up a kick of booze. Nibble a bowl full of them, and you'll feel it.

The color is a good indicator of the strength of strawberry flavor, with the ratafia having a subtle but unmistakable strawberriness, and the liqueur being like liquid strawberry candy. Both are sweet, but the latter is very much so. Which, considering its alcohol content, isn't such a bad thing.

They're both easy to make, and I'm assuming that the ratio I've used for this will work well for other fruits, too. (It had better; I have blueberry and sour cherry versions pickling away as I write this.) So:

Ratafia
Take one bottle of wine - red, white, what have you - and put it in a quart jar with a quarter cup of vodka, a quarter cup of sugar, and a cup of something with flavor. Fruits are lovely, but so are herbs and vegetables, too. Don't underestimate the appeal of cucumber. Store in the refrigerator for three weeks. Strain, bottle, and drink before the flavor fades.

Liqueur
Per 100g of fruit, use 60g of sugar and 125mL of vodka. Place in a large glass jar, and store in a cool, dark place for four weeks. Turn and shake every so often to help the sugar dissolve. Strain and bottle. Pay particular attention to the changing color as the fruit's pigments dissolve into the alcohol.

Presumably other flavors - such as herbs - would make for lovely liqueurs. Unripe walnuts are a fine choice, too. Only time, experimentation, and excessive quantities of fresh foods will tell.

* * * * *

¹As opposed to fermenting directly. I suppose that, if I'd planned for it, I could have juiced a good portion of our berries to make a strawberry wine, but I have to draw a line someplace.

²The second is due for straining and bottling tomorrow. They're essentially the same recipe.

Multicolored peas.

2009-06-22T17:50:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

This may sound silly, but I'm thrilled to grow unusually-colored vegetables.¹ Sometimes, especially in the case of normally-green vegetables, it makes harvesting ever so much easier. Snap beans striped with purple and yellow; blue-podded peas; yellow squash; because they're easier to see, I'm less likely to end up with oversized - and then often less than desirable - vegetables. There are some who like their zucchini bigger than a baseball bat, I guess, though I can't imagine why.

Picking a golden-podded pea or purple bean runs the risk of growing something that looks good, but is lacking in taste, or texture, or what have you. It happens, though I seem to have dodged the bullet this year. Golden peas? Genuinely excellent. Blue-podded peas are also good, enough that I'll grow them again. And as for those Sugar Snap peas?

They're delicious, but in an odd position. Syngenta's PVP has run out, and it seems that seed quality is in decline. The upside? Anyone can produce and sell the seed these days. The downside? For a while, at least, finding reliable seed's going to be tough. So... the 2010 catalogs may need some careful perusal. Perhaps 2010 is the year for experimenting with Cascadia, or Amish Snap, or something else.

Until then, however, I've got many, many fresh peas to enjoy. Fresh, multicolored peas:

Extra bonus: I can pick peas into just one bowl, without worry that I'll mix up those with edible pods and those without.

* * * * *

¹Fruits, too, like yellow or orange raspberries, but they're more difficult, expensive, and time-consuming to play around with.

Oh, does the garden ever grow.

2009-06-18T14:45:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's been a rainy, cool spring. (Today: raining yet again.) This is good for some of the garden - i.e., the lettuces and other greens, the onions, the peas - and less than awesome for other parts of it, such as the tomatoes and peppers. Those hot-weather crops are doing well enough, considering. But it's unlikely to be a bumper crop year.

That's how it works, it seems; I doubt it's possible to have a perfect year of vegetable weather, one that'll goad every plant into producing like mad. The superproductive ones make up for the weak links, and the farmers' market and CSA options fill in the gaps.

And then there are strawberries:

This is just one of very, very many. Yesterday's picking brought us up to quart number sixty-two. That's just a shade under two bushels, though, admittedly, packing strawberries into bushel baskets would be especially disastrous. Or, to put it another way: at an approximate pound-and-a-quarter per quart, that's more than seventy-five pounds of strawberries. For less than thirty bucks' worth of plants put in last year, that's not a bad return. Plus, we've got plenty of jam, syrup, liqueur, and goodwill from friends to tide us through until next year's harvest.¹

The peas are coming on, too. Lovely purple flowers...

...turn into delicious golden pods:

Prolific and delicious, and I've had the presence of mind let a handful of pods grow to maturity for next year's planting.

Also maturing: blueberries. The bird netting's gone up - though the occasional crafty avian has already figured out a way inside - so we'll be transitioning from one fresh fruit to another. And making more jam...

Meanwhile, the garden proper is looking better by the day:

There is, of course, some very happy lettuce:

As well as some vigorous oregano, alive and well from last year:

The potatoes are happy, too, with clusters of flowers opening atop the Purple Peruvian plants:

They even have purple veining on the leaves, though it fades to green as the leaves grow. I was hoping for purple flowers, too, but I guess there's only so much purple one plant can produce.

Last, of course, is the so-far-lovely tomato cage:

Twenty tomato plants and three tomatillos. (They're the three smallish plants nearest to the camera. More sensitive to cold weather, they transplanted later than tomatoes.) They don't look like all that much now, but the Stupice are flowering, and the rest have flower clusters about ready to pop. In fact, they might have already; the rain's keeping me inside.

So far, it's been an effective deterrent to critters of all sorts. There's no roof above, and the crossbars are about six feet up, so I can open up the "gate"² and walk through unimpeded. I train the tomatoes to strings running down from the support beams, carefully removing unwanted suckers - one per plant's nice, and the occasional extra isn't a problem - and by midsummer, I'll be walking in a corridor of tomato greenery and fruits. With a little luck, of course.

* * * * *

¹We're not done picking for this year. But it's slowing down considerably. Peak picking, going out every other day: a dozen quarts. Yesterday was a mere seven.

²Extra netting attached to a length of conduit that's tied into place, so it's like the cheapest, laziest door ever built.

So many strawberries.

2009-06-08T17:37:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Last year, I filled a garden bed with strawberry plants.¹ After removing the flowers and letting them send out as many runners as they liked, we now have a bed that's fully packed with them. And with all those plants come an amazing quantity of ripe, delicious strawberries.

I picked the first quart about a week and a half ago, after working to remove the protective netting and yank the weeds. Every other day or so, it was time to pick again, until we ended up with this for yesterday's picking:

Nine quarts, which brings the total for the season to seventeen. These nine, it's worth noting, were those that had ripened since we'd picked on Friday, two days earlier. Strawberry season is officially in full force.

In addition to devouring them fresh, we've been doing what we can to limit the number taking up fridge space by preserving them.

Strawberry-rhubarb jam? Check. Straight strawberry's going to be the next batch - quite possibly tomorrow, given the rate at which the plants are producing.

Dried strawberries? Check. Especially good in scones; their flavor really seems to sing in baked goods.

Strawberry ratafia? Check. I'm planning to try a strawberry liqueur shortly, too.

We'll freeze some, too. They're perfect for summer smoothies, especially after coming home following a good run on a hot and humid morning.

* * * * *

¹I also planted some alpine strawberries, which are doing quite well in their second year, but they're a pleasure of a different sort.

Planters and transplants.

2009-05-25T14:12:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's been a little while since I last wrote anything about the garden, but it's not as though I haven't been busy. It's just that plain dirt doesn't make for the most engaging photos. Now, however, with greenery abounding, I can blather on once more.

Behold, the mighty deck planter:

It's actually one of two. Currently, this one holds French breakfast and easter egg radishes, hakurei turnips, broccoli raab, and two kinds of peas: a yellow edible-podded variety from India and a blue shelling variety from the Netherlands, I think. Seed Savers gives the name as Blauwschokker, and it's certainly a shocking sort of blue. I don't know how they taste, since the deer ate the plants last year, but the ornamental blue pods alone are worth the space.

This planter's big, by the way. The plantable area's six feet long, twenty-one inches wide, and eighteen inches deep.¹ Big enough to plant just about anything short of a tree, which means I have options. Other than moving them, of course; they're heavy and unwieldy enough empty to require two people to maneuver.

Also visible here: Alpine strawberries, overwintered from last year, and quite vigorous; half of a pot of mint - the other half having moved out to the back garden to take over as much space as it likes; lavender about to flower; a miniature rose for Sharon; and lots of tomato and pepper seedlings.

I took the picture Saturday. Yesterday, the tomatoes moved outside (and into their protective structure, dubbed the "tomato cage"), and the peppers went today. All but for four of them, that is; the Fish and Red Thai chillis will stick around in containers on the deck. Fish, so that they can be seen; Red Thai so that I can ripen them indoors if the weather turns too early. They're hot, delicious, and dry well, and there were far too many sitting green on last year's plants when the frosts overwhelmed the plants.

Meanwhile, it's harvest time for salad greens and radishes, and I had my first ripe strawberry yesterday. (Full-size, not Alpine. Unbelievably good.) At this point, more than half of the season's planting is done, so it's down to trying to protect everything from the critters in the yard so there's enough to harvest. It's a progressive learning experience.

* * * * *

¹I got a little carried away, I suppose, but they're really quite nice to have.

A snapshot of spring.

2009-04-20T10:46:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Spring is here. The violets are out:

The crabapples are ready to burst into bloom:

The thyme is looking bigger and better than it was when I covered it up in the fall:

And the grow table is covered in miniature greenery:

Complete with lovely little true leaves on the tomatoes.¹

True to spring form, it's also raining today, meaning that the radishes, turnips, and shallots can wait a little longer for planting. I doubt they'll mind all that much.

* * * * *

¹They're looking even better today. This photo's from a week or more ago, and they're at the point where I need to seriously consider thinning them out.

Mussels.

2009-04-16T09:09:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

I love mussels. I realize that they're not for everyone, with a relatively powerful shellfish flavor, and a pretty high "ick" factor for those who're squeamish about where meat comes from, but I just adore them. Even with all of the other seafood options available, it's one that I'll swing back to, time and time again.

For starters, there's less question of freshness and quality with mussels, as compared to, say, fish fillets. They're still alive when you get them, with a handy tag telling you when and where they came out of the water. No concerns about multiple freezings, or sitting too long in the cooler display, or any of that.

Unlike other bivalves, they're sand- and grit-free. As tasty as clams are, it's always aggravating when you realize another change of fresh water would've been appropriate. And they don't require specialized, hand-puncturing knives¹ to enjoy, unlike oysters. Also: no little hidden bones or other, uh, textural surprises.

The sand-free benefit comes from the cultivation method used, which involves suspending ropes seeded with mussel spat from rafts, thus keeping them well away from the ocean floor. This gets mussels a big thumbs-up from the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch, which notes that "[mussel] aquaculture operations often benefit the surrounding marine habitat."

Mussels are also very, very easy to cook, which makes them a real treat for busy days. I like to cook them the day that I bring them home,² if possible, but another day or two in the fridge has never been a problem. Even Emily Weinstein agrees that they're about as simple as can possibly be. My preferred method is how Sharon and I used to enjoy them at the Hopleaf Bar in Chicago: in wheat beer with shallots, celery, thyme, and bay leaf. Theirs also comes with a basket of heavenly frites and aioli - sometimes I'll make potatoes, but I'm too lazy for frites - but that's just icing on top.

Also good if you've got some: a fine Breton or Norman dry cider. Traditional? No. But never not delicious.

* * * * *

¹Okay, I've never actually tried shucking oysters before, but my access to high-quality ones is extremely limited, anyhow. I'm perfectly happy leaving the shucking to the professionals, and only having them as a very occasional treat.

²Ideally Wednesday, since the trash goes out that night.

Yogurt.

2009-04-16T07:10:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Harold McGee makes his own yogurt. Now, so do I.

The process is so wonderfully simple that it doesn't even merit a recipe sidebar:

Heat milk until it reaches 180° to 190°F. I picked up a gallon of whole milk, and ladled out half for ricotta when it hit the 160°F mark.
Cool to 115° to 120°F. Mix in two tablespoons of live yogurt per quart.
Keep warm for the next four hours, or until it's set and appropriately tangy. I poured the cultured milk into - of course - old yogurt containers, wrapped them in kitchen towels, and set them inside an insulated cooler.¹

Then it's either eat or refrigerate. I can't imagine how this might get any easier. (Or cheaper.)

* * * * *

¹It's insurance against accidental dog collisions as much as anything.

Spring dandelions.

2009-04-07T09:00:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Growing up, I used to think of dandelions as weeds. As far as my parents - and just about everyone else in the vast suburban sprawl - are concerned, they're plant pests that need to be dealt with. Often via a mysterious granular substance spread across the lawn every spring.

Now I think of dandelions as food. They're edible. Delicious. And both free and freely available from my untreated lawn and garden.

Right now is prime season for tender dandelion¹ greens, though the rapidly greening grass outside makes it somewhat more difficult to spot the bursts of little sawtooth leaves all around. Even so, it only takes ten or fifteen minutes of wandering about to fill the salad spinner, hardly making a dent in the total harvest out there. Those that I miss will go on to flower - I enjoy eating the flowers, too - and then there's always the opportunity to dig and roast the roots for making chicory "coffee".²

The leaves are just a tad bitter these days. Not so bitter that I can't enjoy eating some raw, but a salad of them exclusively is toeing the line. Ruth, who gave me some hop rhizomes, likes that edge of bitterness tamed with a classic bacon dressing, though she admitted she's having difficulties finding a suitable replacement for her vegetarian husband. I have the same trouble: Sharon doesn't go for bacon. Also, she's less enthused by the leafy bitterness than I am.

Instead, I took an approach more like Mark Bittman mentioned a few weeks back. His take was a Ligurian dish mixing dandelion (or other) greens with mashed potatoes, which do indeed look good. Except that we're all out of mashing potatoes - and only have about one meal's worth of fingerlings left, anyhow.

So: tortelloni.³

The key is to blanch the greens first. A minute in plenty of boiling, salted water completely eliminates any trace of bitterness, leaving sweet, wilted leaves that taste unmistakably of dandelion. Sure, a little bit like spinach - in the same way that all greens "taste like spinach" or all mild meats "taste like chicken" - but different and wonderful for it. Out of the boiling water, into cold water, and then drained and squeezed of excess moisture, they're ready to go.

I chopped them coarsely, mixed in about half as much ricotta, and added a few ground walnuts that were left over from a batch of walnut brandy truffles two weeks ago. Just salt and black pepper for seasoning. The ricotta held it all together and gave the filling a bit of creaminess, but nothing masked the dandelion flavor (or color).

Wrapped in a bit of egg pasta dough, they've got a rustic sort of prettiness:

Since I wasn't sure how Sharon would react - turns out she loved 'em - I didn't build dinner entirely around them. Instead, I cooked them in a lightly seasoned duck stock⁴, and served them with their broth. Topped with some grated Parmigiano and some finely minced wild onion greens.

Also from the backyard. Also a fine edible plant I'd grown up thinking of as a noxious weed.

* * * * *

¹I'm sure that I've picked plenty of chicory leaves, too. They're similar in appearance, and pretty much interchangeable as far as flavor goes.

²Haven't done that yet, but I'm looking forward to trying it.

³Tortellini, the really little ones, seem like far too much effort for a more-pasta/less-filling alternative.

⁴Duck bones being in the handiest stock-makings bag in the freezer, of course, but it seemed a good enough idea that I decided to cook up a pair of duck breasts I found in there, too.

Shiro miso.

2009-03-31T11:28:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Miso might very well be the most unusual thing I have ever made, which is no small feat when the other contenders include kimchi and sauerkraut, olives, and, of course, head cheese. Fortunately, I'm thrilled with the results, both because it tastes great and doesn't appear to be poisoning me.¹

Making miso - and shoyu, which I'll be starting up soon - is a multi-stage process.² Also of concern³ for the novice miso-maker: unless you're Japanese, odds are you're no connoisseur of miso, and thus the line separating good from bad is rather fuzzy; the entire process takes weeks, months, or even a year before you have a final product; (warm) temperature control is especially important; and the fermentation relies on a whole host of different types of microorganisms - molds, yeasts, bacteria - so it's not as predictable as, say, brewing beer. Plus, you need to have some miso before you can make miso.

I think of it as a helical process. It circles about to where it began, but it's also taken a step forward. Like a sourdough starter, each new batch contains some (ever smaller) fraction of the original.

Let's say you want to make miso at home. Here's a brief rundown on the process.

Miso starts with a mold and rice culture called koji. Steam white short-grain rice until it's thoroughly cooked. Inoculate with Aspergillus oryzae - which you can order in packets of dry spores - a mold that breaks down the starches and other compounds in rice and soybeans. Keep it warm - 85°F - for 48 hours.⁴

If all goes well, you've got koji, which looks like rice dusted in flour. It smells good, mushroomy and yeasty, and just a bit sweet. The individual grains or rice are intact, but are brittle, and you can see the white mold all the way through to the center.

The next step varies slightly, depending on what sort of miso you're making. White shiro miso ferments quickly - a few weeks, rather than months - and was the first batch by default. It calls for cooked soybeans, salt, and a bit of seed miso. The soybean cooking is another time sink, because it takes in the neghborhood of four hours⁵ to boil soybeans until soft.

With prepared koji and cooked soybeans, it's a simple matter of mixing the two with a little of the soybean cooking water, some salt, and your seed miso. That last ingredient is super-important, because that little tablespoon of unpasteurized miso contains the wide array of microorganisms that will help turn your moldy rice and beans into richly flavored miso. As the whole mixture ages, the aroma changes and intensifies, until finally it's ready to be used. In theory, it should remain at 77°F during that time, but that's not a target temperature I can provide at home; mine fermented longer, at a lower temperature, which I've no doubt influenced the distinct aroma it has. It may be shiro miso, but it smells and tastes distinctly different from the shiro miso I'd used to seed it in the first place.

Most misos are salty, and between that and the long fermentation, they're relatively safe stored unrefrigerated, or so I hear, but they'll last indefinitely if kept cool. Shiro miso, though, won't last outside the fridge, so I now have about a quart and a half - minus what we've eaten so far - ready for enjoyment anytime.

I'm still looking for ideas on how best to use it. Miso soup is good, of course, and I rather enjoy having it for breakfast from time to time. (I just make a mug of it.) Mixing it in with ground peanuts, sesame seeds, and soy sauce makes a delicious dressing for vegetables like broccoli or green beans. Dark misos are excellent with meats - especially as a pre-grilling rub - but I don't see the shiro miso taking on that role. I'm thinking about using it as a filling for some northern Chinese-style steamed buns, just to see how it goes.

* * * * *

¹Always a bonus.

²Red flag.

³More red flags.

⁴Unless you happen to have an incubator handy - which I don't - it's a job that calls for some serious attention. A cooler, some towels, and a large pot of warm water - regularly replaced and adjusted - did the trick, but it was immensely distracting.

⁵Or half an hour if you've got a pressure cooker. Which I don't.

The 2009 season begins.

2009-03-27T13:47:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

The planting has begun. Yesterday, a couple of these went in the ground:

Hop rhizomes. With little buds all ready to go. Ruth, Tom's wife, the gardener and hops caretaker, offered me some when she divided hers, and they went more or less directly from her yard into mine. My guess is that they spent fewer than four hours out of the ground, which I'm hoping will result in vigorous growth this year.

By next year, I'm planning to have a wire support system that spans the deck - they're planted along one side - to enable the hops to become an annual green roof for outdoor dining. Fingers crossed.

For more immediate gratification, this morning I planted three flats' worth of seeds for May transplanting: one of tomatoes, peppers and herbs; two of various flowers that Sharon selected. The 2009 gardening season is officially under way.

Seven kinds of olives!

2009-03-21T22:39:00.003-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's the six-month mark today, so it was high time to sample olives. I ate one from each of my seven batches, and they're all edible. (I'm avoiding the handful of black/moldy/etc. ones, though, so they don't count.) Some are distinct favorites: citrus, garlic, and bay leaf flavors really match well. Cinnamon? Not so much. Also, I found some more bitter than others, and all of them firmer than the ones I'm used to from the store. Plus: the olive flavor is wonderfully intense. These are not olives for the faint of heart.

From what I understand, they'll keep for at least another six months in their brine at room temperature. Refrigerated, even longer. If the flavor starts getting strong in time, refrigeration'll slow 'em down. But will they last that long?

Also: the citrus-intense variety (lemon, lime, orange, celery) is pretty damn good in a martini. More details once I've had time to give them all some serious attention.

Fromage de Tête.

2009-03-17T10:20:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's difficult to state it better than the late English food writer, Jane Grigson:

"Anyone can grill a steak or chop; the cheaper cuts require careful and sophisticated cooking. This does not mean that the methods are difficult or tortuous, but they do require judgement and care over detail. Lack of proper care ... and insensitivity to flavour make many manufactured meat dishes in England uneatable. This commercial debasement ... has misled people into feeling that only the expensive parts of a pig are worth eating."

It works as a fairly general statement, but Grigson is referring specifically to dishes such as fromage de tête. Brawn, in her native England. Head cheese here in the States.

The last - and in fact only - time that I can recall having head cheese was at a tiny Alsatian restaurant in Strasbourg. I asked the owner to bring me the sorts of food I wouldn't find outside of Alsace, and my appetizer was a well-made head cheese. From a pig's head, he told me; not from a calf's head, like you'd find more commonly elsewhere.

It wasn't until recently that I had everything I needed¹ to make my own. Important things on that list: a very large pot; a meat saw²; and this:

One pig's head. In this case, skinned, since it seems nigh impossible to find someone who'll sell a hog with skin on.³ A shame, since the skin's so tasty, but what can you do? I got the head for pretty much free; the farmers said that I was welcome to have as many as I like in the future. The butcher just throws them out, and wouldn't mind in the least.

It doesn't look so terrifying in this picture, though getting up close and personal - with the saw, in particular - made the source of my upcoming meals pretty damn clear. (Like when you find that jamming a thumb into an eye socket gives a better grip.) What made it look something like a horror film prop was when I'd sawn the nose off, exposing some truly fascinating shapes of cavities within the skull. That and big ol' pig teeth. No, I didn't take any pictures.

Brief aside: sawing through a skull is serious work. Cutting turkey carcasses to fit into gallon-size freezer bags? Easy. Trying to hold meat and bone stable enough while ensuring my fingers stay intact? It's enough to make me dream of owning a band saw.

Once that's done, the cooking process couldn't be much simpler. Both Ruhlman and Polcyn's Charcuterie and Grigson's Charcuterie and French Pork Cookery recommend much the same process; I followed the former, because they're more precise - and use easier-to-measure ingredients, like pink salt instead of saltpeter - and I don't have to worry about British-American conversions. In brief, making head cheese goes like this:

Brine a pig's head and trotters, or, in my case, a fresh hock.⁴ Pink salt's optional, though the pink color and cured flavor are nice. Got a cured tongue? Add it to the cooking pot, but not the brine.
Simmer for hours in a large pot with aromatics (garlic, leek, onion), spices (quatre épices - white pepper, cloves, nutmeg, ginger; peppercorns), herbs (parsley, bay, thyme), and a good bit of white wine, plus plenty of water to cover. It's done when the jaw detaches easily.
Remove the meat from the cooking liquid, and strain it. Reduce the liquid until it's gelatin-rich enough to set into a firm gel when chilled. Dice the cooked meats,⁵ and place in a mold with enough aspic to cover. Chill overnight before slicing.

There are some variations, of course. Grigson recommends coating the firmed fromage with toasted breadcrumbs, or lining the mold with slices of hard-cooked egg. Others might add brightly-colored vegetables, such as carrots, sliced and trimmed into flower and leaf shapes. Mine's nothing fancy:

But with some fresh bread and mustard, it's excellent stuff. A green salad and vinaigrette wouldn't hurt, either.

As for the name: according to Alan Davidson's The Oxford Companion to Food, it "is usually moulded in a cylindrical shape, like a cheese". I'd really hoped for a more colorful - even potentially bogus - story for it, but I guess that'll have to do.

* * * * *

¹Including the time and inclination.

²To help, uh, fit the head into the pot. Even the 4-gallon stockpot that I have couldn't handle the whole thing. I could have used the 10-gallon pot I use for brewing beer, except that it's difficult to clean, especially when coated with cooked-on protein-y junk.

³As I understand it, scraping the hide clean is more difficult and time-consuming than simply skinning the carcass.

⁴You can't get real trotters - feet - unless the pig's been scraped clean. They have less meat and more connective tissue than hocks, which is of some benefit here, but you work with what you've got. In my case, half a dozen hocks, though only one went into this batch. Even so, it may have furnished as much meat as the entire head did.

⁵Finding all of the meaty bits around the head is kind of fun. Who knew there was a (relatively) good-sized muscle running up behind the eye, protected by an arch of skull? Plus, you can see where all of the nerves - eyes, nose, etc. - disappear into little openings to reach the brain. Sadly, I couldn't figure out how to extract the brain without making a serious mess, so I couldn't cook that up. Next time, maybe? (Grigson heartily recommends it.)

Hopalong Cassidy.

2009-02-24T10:25:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

Homebrew. It's a delicious sort of thing. Back in the fall, Tom Cassidy invited me over to his place to harvest some of his excess of hops. I picked a two-gallon bucket full of hop cones, dried them,¹ and stuck them in the freezer for future brewing. They're aroma hops² - i.e., not for bittering - and so lend their distinct quality to whatever they're brewed in.

Bonus: it's an idea for a label. Behold:

It's Tom, in some stylin' Western gear, courtesy of Photoshop. I had to keep the label secret from him, of course. After telling him that I'd left something with his name on it in the math office refrigerator, he responded with, "You didn't say it had my face on it!" In a good way. And it tasted good, too.

Then, for an extra dose of Tom + wide-brimmed hat, he was willing to pose with his own picture:

This year's cider labels aren't so interesting, though the ciders themselves are quite delicious. The latest batch just went into bottles, and is carbonating, ever so slowly. Also coming up in fermentation experiments:

That batch of olives I started curing back in September is almost ready. After five months of slow going in salt brine, I was able to eat (and enjoy!) one. Still bitter, but not so much that I wouldn't finish one. Just one month left.
Homemade miso! Another week or two - maybe - and it'll be ready to eat. I'll explain the process when I have some photos. For now, though, I'm fascinated by the fact that it has the most amazing berry-like aroma. If it's a success, I have a second batch almost ready to go.

* * * * *

¹Once dried, it ended up being about six ounces.

²Mt. Hood and something else, but I forget what. Not that it matters all that much, since they're all mixed in together.

I'm just crackers for...

2009-01-23T09:47:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

Do these count as bread?

In addition to the usual breadmaking around here, I've been making crackers. Lots and lots of crackers. I'm trying to keep a jar of crackers full at (nearly) all times, because they're a real treat to snack on occasionally. The ones pictured above are whole wheat with celery, which we devoured with a vegetable soup; the next set, on the counter now, are made with rye flour and poppy seeds. Other versions have been topped with a variety of seeds - fennel, caraway, cumin, etc. - and flavored with spices like smoked paprika or sweetened with a little sugar. They're extremely easy, and flexible to boot.

I'd made less-than-special crackers every great once in a while, but mostly before I really got into baking bread. Before I started paying close attention. Besides, in Madison, I could just pick up Potter's Crackers at the Willy St. Coop. Why mess with success?

Now I no longer have that luxury. And then I spotted this article in the New York Times. More specifically, I watched the little video that accompanies it, which made the whole process look easy. Too, too easy. So I had to try again, only with a little more precision.¹

Important note: crackers are easy. I've adjusted the Times recipe to make things more consistent, but a little care and attention will definitely turn out fine crackers every time.

Here's the general process, which is as close to a recipe as I follow:

In a small bowl, mix together 200g of flour. I tend to use at least 50-75% bread flour, with something more flavorful - whole wheat, barley, rye, etc. - to top it off, but anything with some gluten in it should work on its own. I'm certain that 100% whole wheat will turn out well; all-barley and all-spelt should be okay, too. Not sure about cornmeal yet, but it might be the next experiment.

For lightly sweet crackers, try adding 30g of sugar. The dough's more difficult to work, as most sweet breads are, but they're especially crisp when done. Dusting the tops with sugar also makes for a fantastic gloss.
Include salt, ground spices, and herbs in the bowl. Poppy seeds work, too. I use about 6g of salt (a scant half tablespoon of kosher salt), and plan to use more for the top. Mix it all together well.
Stir in 120g water (60%). Or so. It just has to be a kneadable dough. Stir to bring it together, then knead smooth-ish. There's no need to overdo it.
For consistency's sake, I roll mine out with a pasta machine. (Number 6 on my Atlas, which is a slightly thick and chewy linguine size.) That way, I can cover two half-sheet pans² without crowding. If you're rolling by hand, just beware of thick spots, especially around the edges.
Brush the tops of the sheets of dough with water, the sprinkle with salt, seeds, etc. Score into whatever shapes suit - a pizza cutter or pastry wheel is handy here - and slide into the oven.
Bake at 350°F for 20-25 minutes. I usually switch and rotate the trays after 10 and 20 minutes to bake them evenly. When they're brown and crispy, they're done. Move them to a rack to cool - which only takes a few minutes - and break them along the score marks. In an airtight container, they'll last... until they're all eaten, I guess. It doesn't take very long around here.

* * * * *

¹In short: I'm using fewer and fewer volume measurements in baking, instead swapping them out for weight, which is far more reliable.

²The usual size in a home kitchen. Full sheet pans won't fit in my oven.

Mmm. Stripey tomatoes.

2009-01-15T09:30:00.001-05:00

Lewisburg.

Let's talk tomatoes.

There are a small handful of vegetables that the average American garden includes. Sweet corn's up there, as is the zucchini. Green beans often make a showing, and snap peas seem pretty common. But nothing rivals the tomato for popularity, in my experience. A warm, vine-ripened tomato is a luxury that even the poor saps buying grocery store tomatoes¹ this time of year can appreciate. I even remember an excellent "News from Lake Wobegon" bit from years back that was entirely devoted to the effort and pleasure that goes into growing the perfect tomato.

That said, I don't aim for perfection. I aim for delicious, delicious variety. This year, I'm planning to grow nine different varieties of tomato. I'd plan on more, but space constraints - both in garden area and stomach capacity, even considering the canning and drying options - limit me to somewhere in the range of twenty plants. Which is still a lot, of course.

The majority of our tomatoes come from the Seed Savers Exchange, a non-profit group devoted to preserving heirloom seeds. If you're a member, you have access to an alarming variety of plants, but even we peons can find a phenomenal variety of interesting things in the annual catalog. Especially when it comes to peppers, melons, squash, and tomatoes.

Oh, the tomatoes. SSE offers 72 different varieties in their catalog, and they run the full range of possibility in terms of color, size, shape, and flavor. Reds and pinks, yellows and greens, oranges and browns and blacks; some with stripes and some with peach-like fuzz. The Brandywine (Sudduth's Strain) will produce fruits of up to 2 lb. each, while the Gold Rush Currants are a mere quarter-inch in diameter. The choices are so interesting that it's tough to choose.

I've ended up with nine types of tomatoes for 2009; eight come from SSE, plus the Sun Gold hybrid from Johnny's Selected Seeds. It's such a fine little tomato that it's tempting to grow it alone, just a field of bright, sweet, orange-colored fruits ready for eating out of hand. But we need variety. So, after a series of little red dots beside everything that looks good², it's time to narrow it down.

Sometimes it's easiest to make up a few semi-arbitrary rules to simplify the process. For example: no beefsteak varieties. Sure, they're good, but we're less likely to use them. Another: no Sun Gold-like varieties, since we've already got that covered. And: a mix of colors is essential. Finally: what worked best last year?

What does that leave us with? More than enough, still. Admittedly, flipping back through the catalog makes me want to second-guess myself; maybe I should have picked the Plum Lemon or the Nyagous. But the seeds are already on their way, so I suppose these are enough:

Black Plum: Oval 2" fruits ripen from deep mahogany to black-brown, better color than other blacks. Some prefer this variety for spaghetti sauce because of the nice rich color. Indeterminate, 80 days from transplant.

We love these little tomatoes, and have grown them with success a number of times. In addition to having good flavor and a really interesting color, they've got a perfect little size that lets them ripen well even in an off year (like 2008). They're also spectacular when dried, because the meaty flesh holds them together into perfect slices.
Federle: Beautiful, blemish-free 6-7" long paste tomato, rich full flavor unlike most other banana pepper-shaped tomatoes. Productive plants. Very few seeds, excellent for processing, especially good for salsa. Indeterminate, 85 days from transplant.

These are going to be an experiment. We didn't have great luck with the Amish Paste tomatoes last year, so a lot of these are probably destined for canning or drying. If we get enough of them, then we'll probably start canning our own jars of salsa again this year - assuming the peppers have a good year, too.
Green Zebra: Green 1½ - 2½" fruits with various shades of yellow to yellowish-green stripes, sweet zingy flavor. Very productive plants, sure to be a best seller at market. Introduced in 1985 by Tater Mater Seeds. Indeterminate, 75-80 days from transplant.

Hands-down, my favorite tomato. Juicy, uniquely spicy in flavor, and really striking when they ripen to green and yellow tiger stripes. They're perfect for the home garden, because they're almost impossible to transport when fully ripe; they're so tender that it's all you can do to get them inside the house intact.³
Jaune Flamme: Beautiful apricotshaped heirloom from France. Great for drying, retains deep orange color. Excellent bitey flavor. Very productive, fruits borne in clusters and weigh 2-3 ounces, about the size of a large apricot. Indeterminate, 70-80 days from transplant.

One of Sharon's favorites. 2008 wasn't a good year for them, but they have such a great flavor that I'm trying again. We'll have to see how they compare with the...
Moonglow: Medium-sized bright orange fruits. Solid orange meat, few seeds and wonderful flavor. One of our favorites since we first grew it in 1996. Indeterminate, 80 days from transplant.

Will these be as good or better than the Jaune Flamme tomatoes? Who knows? At least we ought to have plenty of orange tomatoes this year.
Speckled Roman: Developed by SSE member John Swenson as a result of a stabilized cross of Antique Roman and Banana Legs. Gorgeous 3" wide by 5" long fruits with jagged orange and yellow stripes. Meaty, great tomato taste, ideal for processing. Very productive, few seeds. Still throws an occasional yellow striped fruit. Indeterminate, 85 days from transplant.

We've picked these up at farmers' markets before, and they're really cool-looking. They taste pretty good, too. I'm thinking of them as a complement to the Federle tomatoes for processing, in addition to looking good on a plate of sliced tomatoes.
Stupice: One of the four Czechoslovakian tomato varieties sent to the U.S. by Milan Sodomka. Potato-leaf 4' plants loaded with 2½" by 2" diameter fruits borne in clusters. Extremely early, great flavor. Heavy yields all season. Produces well in northern climates. Indeterminate, 55-70 days from transplant.

Here's our workhorse tomato. Sharon remembers us growing them - with good results - in Madison, though I can't quite recall. I do remember seeing them for sale at the market, and figure it's worth a shot. If nothing else, they're early tomatoes - as early as 55 days, compared to the 70 or 80 days more common for similarly-sized fruits.
Wapsipinicon Peach: Heavy producer of 2" peach-shaped fuzzy yellow fruits. Sweet excellent flavor. Our favorite “peach” tomato, from Dennis Schlicht, named after the Wapsipinicon River in northeast Iowa. Winner of SSE’s 2006 Heirloom Tomato Tasting. Indeterminate, 80 days from transplant.

Now this is one delicious and productive tomato. Just all-around excellent, and we're going to continue to grow this variety for as long as we can get the seed. Also interesting: the skin is slightly fuzzy, and the flesh blushes pink in spots when ripe, making these alarmingly peach-like in appearance.
Sun Gold: Intense fruity flavor. Exceptionally sweet, bright tangerine-orange cherry tomatoes leave customers begging for more. Vigorous plants start yielding early and bear right through the season. Tendency to split precludes shipping, making these an exclusively fresh-market treat. The taste can’t be beat. Indeterminate.

Yup, these are a pretty phenomenal tomato. Perfectly delicious eaten out of hand, or just barely cooked, warmed through and softened ever so slightly. If left whole and slow-roasted, they're the most amazing tomato-flavored candy.

What'll work this year, and what won't? Will twenty plants be far too many this year? What varieties will I be salivating over for 2010? Hard to say, but I'm excited to find out.

* * * * *

¹Why? Seriously? They have the taste and texture of cardboard. I could try to explain it by assuming it's part of some lizard-brain habit, except that my lizard-brain is occupied solely with things that I like, including sleeping in, sex, cocktails that taste of alcohol, and guilty-pleasure foods. Not necessarily in that order, though extra sleep is so much nicer when the dog gets you up in the pre-dawn hours every single day.

²Relatively speaking. Honestly, there probably isn't a single one in the catalog that I wouldn't be happy to be growing, so there's a distinct pressure to be selective.

³Exaggeration? Sure. But only slightly.

Pizza.

2009-01-14T13:48:00.002-05:00

Lewisburg.

We had pizza for dinner last night. It's been an evolutionary process to get here:

Let me note that getting a pizzeria-like crust from a home oven is far more difficult than you'd expect, for one reason: professional pizza ovens (and wood-fired brick ovens) hang out in the neighborhood of 700° to 800°F. Sometimes up near 900°F. Mine only threatens to get near that range during the self-clean cycle, during which the door latch safety mechanism makes it really tough to get the pizzas in and out. So even cranked up to full blast, a home oven can't get a traditional pizza crust, well, crusty.

At least not beneath the sauce, cheese, and other various toppings. It'll still taste good, of course, but it's just not quite right. It's frustrating.

I stumbled across a key bit of information on Baking Bites, in a post for the Perfect Pizza Crust. Higher-protein flours absorb more water, which helps keep the crust from drying out in the professional oven... but results in a soft crust at home. Switching to all-purpose flour is an improvement, but still not quite perfect. The Baking Bites solution - from a recipe in Cook's Illustrated - uses a combination of all-purpose and cake flours to achieve crispiness.

Problem: I don't like cake flour. Yes, I do have some in the pantry, but I avoid it whenever I can. It's undergone some serious bleaching and other treatments, which I'd just as soon not rely on for situations that don't demand it. I'll even make cakes with all-purpose flour, which still makes for a delicious dessert, though with a slightly denser and drier texture.

Solution: pastry flour. It's low-protein flour, with great flavor if you've got a whole wheat version, like most organic brands.

In brief, here's how I'm making pizzas these days:

Make the dough for the crust with a mix of all-purpose and pastry flours. I like 225g total for a 12-inch pizza, and, though it may need some tweaking, I think 175g all-purpose and 50g pastry flour works well. Add 5g salt, an appropriate amount of yeast¹, and 157g water (70% hydration). Mix together, knead briefly, and set aside to rise.
Make the sauce, with whatever tastes good. Cook it down until the tomatoes have completely lost their structure and a lot of moisture. Puree and set aside.
For toppings, I keep it very simple. A small amount of thinly sliced or shredded cheese when we're not feeding vegans. Perhaps some mushrooms sauteed until crispy, or a few caramelized onions. Fresh herbs, in season, can wait until the pizza comes out of the oven.
Stretch the dough into a 12-inch round. If necessary, set it down during the stretching process to let the gluten relax. You'll want it thin, but avoid tearing it; fold over holes and pinch together to patch them. I like to grab about an inch in from the edge to create a rim of crust and pull apart gently while rotating the dough. It's not nearly as impressive as spinning and tossing, but a lot safer. I also think it's even easier than laying the dough flat and stretching, because you're letting gravity do a lot of the work.
When the oven's as hot as it'll get - 550°F here, with the pizza stone well preheated² - lay the crust on a peel dusted with cornmeal. Make sure it's not sticking. Brush on a light layer of olive oil, then spread with just enough sauce to almost cover. Top with cheese or whatever, and slide into the oven. Bake until it's brown and crispy. I find that seven to eight minutes works. Allow to cool on a rack for a few minutes, which'll help keep the underside from getting soggy after all that work.

Years of fighting with pizzas and home ovens, and it's that simple. The most difficult part, I think, is stepping back enough to treat the entire process with a light touch. Don't work the dough too much; a minimum of effort gives maximum rewards. Resist the temptation to embellish with too many toppings. A good crust just can't handle it, and gets lost underneath.

Enjoy the fact that it's good, simple food. But no less impressive for it.

EDIT: Mis-typed the quantity of salt for the pizza dough. It's a lot less over-salted now.

* * * * *

¹Half a teaspoon works for a one- or two- hour rise; scale it back to a quarter or an eighth for overnight, depending on how long it'll go. Or use the fridge to retard the rising. I pretty much never do, though it's mostly a function of lack of space.

²The oven beeps (or whatever) to say it's preheated? It's lying. They all do. Give it at least another half an hour, especially to ensure that the pizza stone is up to temperature, too.

Garden planning: the "good parts" version.

2009-01-14T09:44:00.001-05:00

Lewisburg.

'Tis the season for very little gardening, but lots of planning. The first package of seeds (along with some other useful odds and ends) is due to arrive from Johnny's today, and the bulk of the rest from Seed Savers not long after. This step, of course, comes after the spreadsheet-based mania that I use as the main planning process. Steve, you asked for it; here's how I'm planning the 2009 gardening season.

I'm amazed that I find it as interesting as I do. After all, I haven't often (ever?) though of playing with spreadsheets to be especially fun. At the moment, I'm wrestling with how I can put the gist of it up here without making my eyes glaze over with boredom, let alone anyone else's. At this point, I'm going to take a cue from William Goldman¹ and just run with the "good parts" version. In brief, it goes something like this:

1) The days grow short in November and December, and the ground starts freezing over. With any luck, I take this as a sign to let the garden rest, and I've had the foresight to harvest everything that's harvestable.² Exciting discovery from 2008: the Brussels sprouts can nearly freeze solid and still cook up beautifully. Also: when the planters on the deck freeze solid, the cold-hardy plants in them will wilt. Bring them inside, though, and they come back to life.

2) In mid-December, the new catalogs arrive. They're all possibility and no effort; with pretty pictures and enticing descriptions, they make the argument that there isn't a bad choice among them. Examples that I've selected for my garden:

Listada de Gandia (Eggplant): Beautiful purple striped eggplant. After selecting for over 5 years, this is the best strain out of 10 for consistent deep color and earliness. We can say with certainty that this is the best strain available on the market. Reliable, heavy yields of excellent quality, 6-8" thin skinned fruits.
Noir des Carmes (Melon): One of the easiest to grow and most luxurious of all melons. Extremely dark green skin, almost black when immature, ripening to mostly orange mottled with green. Sweet, aromatic, orange flesh. Very productive. Sure to be a new family favorite.
Hon Tsai Tai (Brassica rapa): Purple flower stems and buds. A Chinese specialty. The young plants soon branch and produce quantities of long, pencil-thin, red-purple, budded flower stems. Pleasing, mild mustard taste for use raw in salads or lightly cooked in stir-fries or soups. For multiple harvesting of tender stems and leaves. Can be spring sown, but yields best when sown June through October for harvest from midsummer through winter (in mild areas).
Sun Gold (Tomato): Intense fruity flavor. Exceptionally sweet, bright tangerine-orange cherry tomatoes leave customers begging for more. Vigorous plants start yielding early and bear right through the season. Tendency to split precludes shipping, making these an exclusively fresh-market treat. The taste can’t be beat. Indeterminate.

And so on. I spend a few weeks looking through everything, marking the interesting ones with a red pen. The Listada de Gandia and Sun Golds were successes in 2008, but the others are new experiments. This year brings the new experience of being able to check off vegetables that we're thrilled to be able to grow (and eat) again.

3) Inevitably, there are far too many little red dots. This year, I've limited myself to about forty-five different types of vegetables and herbs; the total number of varieties is a little over one hundred. (Nine types of tomatoes and fifteen kinds of peppers'll do that.)

Figuring out what to grow becomes a back-and-forth process between individual garden bed layouts and the catalogs. There are thirteen beds - fourteen including the planters on the deck³ - in a particular rotation schedule to (in theory) minimize pest and fertility problems. Each is approximately nine by twenty-five feet, separated by bands of untilled lawn and smaller patches with flowers and herbs. Most of these large plots will be devoted to vegetables, except for a few with cover crops. I go through them, one by one, filling in the available space with the varieties that look most interesting, or that worked out last year, and set aside a few pockets for scattering flowers and herbs.

This is the 2009 arrangement of garden beds. It's oddly-shaped because of the edge of the property and the various trees already growing around. The little two-letter markings are a shorthand for coordinating placement in spreadsheet columns; writing "br" instead of "brassicas" means I don't have to scroll left and right as often when typing the details in.

4) The next, deeply exciting step is to try to coordinate multiple plantings to make the most effective use of space. Also to avoid having one massive harvest of, say, lettuce, that we can't possibly eat and can't preserve for later. I'm not especially good at this, though I'm getting better. Fortunately, the garden's productive enough that it can easily feed two people with regular dinner guests for the bulk of the season.

It's also time to make sure that I have enough space at any given time to start seedlings. Since long-season crops are a little hard-pressed to produce in the window between frosts in Pennsylvania, the seeds need a head start beneath a row of fluorescent tubes for a few weeks. Without a greenhouse handy, I'm limited by the size of my table and number of fixtures. (It's plenty.) Any spare space will be used for flowers, so we can have some colorful blooms early in the season.

5) Final step: order seeds. After using the spreadsheet to figure out how many I need - length of row times seed spacing, plus extras for starting transplants; accounting for any seed I have saved from last year - I spend the better part of an afternoon clicking the "add 1 packet" button on the seed company websites.

In brief, that's it. Later I'll probably post something to highlight a few of the interesting varieties I'm trying out this year. After all, for the price of a cup or two of coffee, I can get enough heirloom tomato seeds to make pizza sauce regularly throughout the winter. Or a year's worth of basil for pesto. Or, if all goes well, more watermelon than I know what to do with.

* * * * *

¹Author of The Princess Bride.

²This might change next winter, if I get around to constructing a few cold frames to extend the season.

³For both convenience and deer- and rabbit-proofing. Salad greens, baby carrots, radishes, turnips, peas, and plenty of herbs are all planned for the deck. So are a few small pepper plants that are both ornamental and edible.

Walnut brandy.

2009-01-05T11:24:00.002-05:00

Lewisburg.

I have a backyard full of edible things. Some of those I've planted, like the multitude of vegetables in the annual - and slowly expanding to year-round - garden.¹ Then there are the existing fruit bushes and trees, like the blueberries and pears that were so productive that we weren't prepared for it all.

Then we have the apples and walnuts. The apple trees, it seems, have never been pruned², which means we won't have a chance at harvesting anything halfway decent until I'm able to bring them back under control. And the walnuts? Well, I never did find any ripe ones. My hunch is that the squirrels managed to swipe them all well before I could.

It's okay, though. I have a backup plan: walnut brandy. In addition to making use of the nuts months before the squirrels are even paying attention, it handily solves the issue of preservation. Plus, it's potent mojo.

In short, the process goes like this: harvest unripe walnuts; steep in vodka or brandy with spices for several months; add sugar to take the edge off; drink when the weather's turned cold and damp. I have English walnuts handy, but I don't see any reason it wouldn't work with the black walnuts that grow like weeds around here. There's no doubt that the flavor will be different - black walnuts being especially strong-flavored - but probably worth the (minimal) effort.

The recipe comes from Elisabeth Luard's European Peasant Cookery, a real gem of a find from the library. I've tweaked it slightly, reducing the quantity of sugar³, but it worked so well that I fully intend to work up multiple batches next year.

Walnut Brandy (Broux de noix)
Makes 2 liters
Time: Start 6 months ahead

Ingredients
10 fresh green walnuts
2 liters eau de vie or vodka
2 sticks of cinnamon
Zest of 2 lemons
Scrap of mace
2 cloves
500g sugar
Directions
Pick the walnuts in early July, when tender enough to pierce with a needle. Cut them in half and remove the outer husks; wear gloves, as the flesh will stain fingers for days. Chop the nutmeats as finely as possible, using a food processor if possible.

Place the walnut paste, cinnamon sticks, and alcohol in a large jar. Seal tightly and set in a warm place to infuse.

At the beginning of September, strain the liquor through a cheesecloth and discard the walnuts and cinnamon. Return to the jar and add the lemon zest, mace, cloves, and sugar. Set aside to infuse for another month. Strain again, bottle, and set aside until late December. Serve in small glasses, preferably in front of a burning Yule log.

* * * * *

¹I intend to post some significant chunks of the garden planning information this year, but I'm still hammering out the details. I hope to be ordering seeds very shortly.

²Our neighbors can pretty much confirm this.

³Maybe. There's a typo in the recipe, such that it calls for either 500g or 1kg of sugar, depending on where it's noted. I opted for the smaller amount, which is still undeniably sweet.

Bread Upon The Brain!

2008-12-19T20:06:00.002-05:00

Lewisburg.

I've been on a bread-baking kick of late. The primary reason, I suppose, is that finding decent bread¹ around here is nigh impossible. So it's either this:

Or nothing.

Funny thing about bread: it's very easy to make your own, but it's maddeningly difficult to master. It seems, in fact, that the more time spent attempting to master it, the more I realize the immense complexity and depth of the whole endeavor. Even choosing to restrict the ingredients to the basic four² - flour, water, yeast, salt - leaves the budding baker with a wide range of options. Personal example: bread was one of the first things I taught myself to make, about ten years ago. I haven't struggled with anything else for near that length of time.³

What I have learned about breadmaking is as follows:

Measuring by volume will drive you mad. Get a good scale and use it for everything. (Exceptions for small quantities, such as fractional teaspoons and tablespoons of yeast, salt, herbs, etc.) Varying the weight of the added liquid - as a percentage of the flour's weight - produces a wide range of results. Try 50% for bagels; 85% for an open texture full of irregular holes; 65-70% for everyday loaves. Corollary: Work in metric; it makes the arithmetic far less headache-inducing. Second corollary: Generally speaking, you'll want to learn the approximate weight of flour that best fits your chosen baking container(s). There's some flexibility here, influenced in part by the specific ingredients you choose, but it helps a) produce well-shaped loaves, and b) reduces the number of times you'll need mentally calculate 65% of 450g.
Novice breadmakers use too much flour. Always.⁴ You'll almost have to be teetering across the dough/batter divide before kneading becomes impossible. Caveat: Kneading takes longer than you'd think to get the knack for. Fortunately, it's not as critical a step as most cookbooks seem to suggest.
Bake at higher temperatures. 350°F may be essential for especially rich or sweet breads - brioche, cinnamon rolls - to prevent scorching, but it makes for an unimpressive crust on most loaves. I'm currently baking most breads in the 425° - 450°F range, though pizza crusts get as much fire⁵ as the oven'll give me.
Don't use sugar. Unless you want the sweetness (sweet breads) or flavor (bagels and pretzels), of course. There's plenty of food for the yeast in the flour, and giving them refined sugars only reduces the fermented flavors in the finished bread. Some people seem surprised by this, which itself surprises me. After all, refined sugar's pretty new on the culinary scene; leavened bread's leaning to the ancient side.
Less yeast, more time. Makes it taste better. Plus, the timing's more forgiving. The refrigerator can be a fine tool.
Use enough salt. It improves both flavor and texture. I use a scant tablespoon - 15g or so - of kosher salt for 450g of flour, which suits me.
For a lovely, shattery crust, an enclosable baking container works wonders. A cast-iron dutch oven (preheated, of course) is the best I've found, though I bake sandwich loaves with a pair of loaf pans. One sits upside-down atop the other, held in place with binder clips. A tent of aluminum foil, tightly crimped around the edges, works well, but you need to be careful to leave enough space for the oven spring.
Make bread frequently. I don't often repeat the same precise recipe, but each time is a variation on a few different themes, and the experimentation makes for a fine teacher.
Finally: those who don't bake bread are inevitably impressed with all but the most spectacular failures. (That would be the great majority of everyone you know.)

There's probably something I've neglected to mention, and even more that I'll continue to learn through trial and (edible) error. But until then:

Walnut bread
This loaf's becoming a favorite treat around here, fueling the need to buy walnuts in bulk. (The squirrels get every single nut off of the trees in the backyard.) It makes a fine loaf bread, though I made a wreath-like epi version for a holiday gift. Rich and tender, it's lovely stuff.

The following quantities suit my 9-¼" x 5-¼" loaf pan, which is how I'm most inclined to make it. To grind the walnuts, I give them a quick trip through the food processor. The result is fairly fine without becoming oily.

Ingredients:
600g bread flour
100g ground walnuts
20g salt
3/8 teaspoon yeast
420g water
Directions:
Mix together the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Stir in the water, and turn out onto a lightly floured board. Knead briefly, until it is all incorporated together. A shaggy dough is just fine. Shape into a ball and return to the bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and allow to rest 18-24 hours.

Punch down the dough and shape into a loaf; allow to proof, covered, in a lightly greased loaf pan for at least an hour. Bake in a 425°F oven for about an hour; if possible, keep the loaf tightly covered for the first half hour. Allow to cool on a rack.

* * * * *

¹As in "good enough", not "especially good" or "great".

²Which I'm certainly not doing.

³Even something like roasting a Thanksgiving turkey, that once-a-year-and-only-once process, is coming along at a better clip.

⁴Note: This will not happen if you adhere to two simple rules.

Weigh your ingredients. Do not use volume measures.
Use a minimum of flour on your board when kneading. Using a dough scraper helps, particularly for doughs with 70% hydration and up.

Also: Kneading the dough will help even out wet/dry patches, as will rising time.

⁵550°F. Getting the right crust at that temperature, about two hundred degrees below a professional oven, is really tough. Really tough. I'm not quite ready to build a wood-fired brick oven, but it's really tempting to hunt for the right excuse.

... did you?

2008-11-04T11:15:00.001-05:00

Did you?

Halloween horror.

2008-10-28T10:54:00.003-04:00

Lewisburg.

We're expecting trick-or-treating munchkins this year, which poses a few problems that we hadn't thought out particularly well before. After all, when you've lived for years inside a locked apartment building with few, if any, small children, these things don't become issues at the forefront of your mind. Halloween focuses more on cobbling together a costume from the nearest thrift store, then stopping to pick up some beer on the way to the party.¹ Last year, Sharon picked up some candy at CVS, sort of last-minute, to give out to the handful of kids who stopped by, but that was as far as we got.

(Apparently - even though I missed it - the 3- or 4-year-old in a lion costume who stopped by was the event of the evening. He didn't remember to say "trick or treat" and wasn't sure what to do after receiving his candy. So he just sat down on the porch, looking up at Sharon, until his mother coaxed him down. Our neighbors thought he was adorably hilarious, too.)

This year, we've expanded a bit. Sharon went to the little candy shop downtown to pick up some treats that aren't HFCS-based. Sure, they're still loaded with sugar - they look like un-crooked candy canes to me, so they've got to be 98% sugar, minimum - but at least it's supporting a local business. And we brought home a pumpkin from the market for the first jack o'lantern either of us has made for years. It was tough, actually, trying to figure out what to carve, when we hadn't done this for so long. So, after a lot of scribbling on little pieces of paper:

Unilluminated, it's not the most exciting of pumpkins. Having hacked away with the paring knife, though, it isn't as though I could go back and erase, so we dropped in a candle, dimmed the lights, and were pleasantly surprised. Seriously. I neglected to take a candle-less photo, but you'll have to trust me that it was about as unimpressive as it could be.

Even better, though, is when we turned out all of the kitchen lights:

Good enough for government work, as my dad might say. Which, of course, reminds me that the scariest day of the coming week isn't Friday. It's Tuesday.²

I recommend a regular dose of FiveThirtyEight to take the edge off. Polls, of course, are inherently limited, but aside from knowing my polling place - and a little volunteer time for the GOTV effort - there's little I can effectively do. It's frightening to see the massive, clanging, somewhat-irrational-and-unpredictable behemoth that is the presidential election screeching and howling into election day.

Maybe I should dress up as the electoral college.

* * * * *

¹There aren't as many parties to attend, now that we're in central PA, playing the "responsible adult" game, so costumes aren't happening for 2008.^a But Fiend Without A Face should be arriving before Friday, so at least we have something horror-related to watch. That's safe to have on when a 4-year-old comes to the door.

My initial thoughts were to watch something more like Dead Ringers or The Act of Seeing with One’s Own Eyes, but neither of those is remotely appropriate for a television that can be seen from the porch.

^aBesides that, what am I going to dress up as? The current Republican ticket's the scariest thing I can think of. Aside from some sort of terrible, world destroying Cheney-zilla. (Maybe next year.)

²Why Tuesday? Indeed.

The Mighty Olive!

2008-09-25T11:46:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

There are all manner of foods that, upon reflection, seem unlikely or even impossible candidates to make that leap from "thing out there in nature" to "tasty and delicious comestible".¹ Cassava - also known as manioc and yuca, and which provides us with tapioca - comes to mind, since it's chock full of delightful prussic acid, or hydrogen cyanide, and requires a combination soaking and heating processes to make it safe to eat. Or the cow, which in its ancient form, the aurochs², seems a little less dangerous to hunt than a rhinocerous, and only marginally more domesticable.

Or the olive. The humble olive, fruit of Olea europaea:

Oval-shaped, speckled green, and definitely on the so-bitter-this-isn't-food side of the fence. Karl, my olive-curing partner, and I each tasted just a little bit of fresh, unripe olive, which left a lingering bitterness at the back of the mouth for at least five or ten minutes. A whole green olive, I've heard, can have enough oleuropein to keep you stocked in mouth-tingling bitterness for several hours. Even after the bitterness went, the tingling sensation lingered at the back of the roof of the mouth, the very same cough-inducing tingle that you get from good, fresh olive oil.

Incidentally, that little bite of olive tasted a lot like raw dandelion greens, or any other wild, bitter green. Not bad, per se, but definitely something to be had in moderation, and not by itself. And not as fiercely bitter as the Tylopilus felleus mushrooms I found back in July, which all but screamed not to be eaten.³ The bitterness didn't come on at first, but swelled and then faded. Neither of us felt the need to go back for seconds.

Bitterness, in olives and pretty much all other plants, is a way of communicating the message not to eat. It's less common in fruit than in leaves, for example, because an appealingly tasty fruit is more likely to find a hungry animal to help disperse the seeds. For olives, however, bitter fruit works. Their preferred seed dispersers are birds, which swallow the olives whole; we mammals chew before swallowing, which can damage the seed, especially in a fruit with just one large, central seed.

Olea europaea seems to have a rather good story of evolutionary success, due in no small part to humans. Oleasters, the wild trees, supplied occasional food for neolithic hunter-gatherers 10,000 years ago; Alan Davidson describes fully ripe olives as "relatively free of bitterness", which I suppose was good enough. Evidence of olive mills and presses, as well as cultivation, dates back to before 3,000 BCE. It's quite likely that these oily little fruit - up to 30% of the flesh - were originally used for just their oil, for cooking and for lamp fuel. Even today, 90% of the world's crop is destined for olive oil.⁴

So they're useful trees. Long-lived, too. Harold McGee notes that they're hardy, drought-tolerant, and can live and bear for a thousand years. Though severe cold will kill them - severe frosts in Provence in 1870 and 1956 did massive damage - they can survive in Mediterranean-like climates wherever they're found. I used to sit and read under them in central Arizona, and can say that they're quite possibly the loveliest, most graceful trees I've ever seen.

In addition to being useful, they've also done serious ecological damage, following overplanting - some government-forced in the ancient Mediterranean - which put olives everywhere they'd grow. To the exclusion of plenty of other plants and animals, of course.

Back to the matter at hand. Olives can be harvested anywhere from green - unripe, hard, and bitter - to purplish-black - ripe, soft, and still bitter, but not so much. To alleviate the bitterness, there are several methods that may be used alone or in combination:

Water-curing, which requires repeated soakings and rinsings to leach out the bitter oleuropein. Repeated, as in over several months.
Brine-curing, which is a fermentation process in salt brine that can take from one to six months to complete.
Dry-curing, which involves packing the olives in salt to cure, much like making preserved lemons, I suppose.
Oil-curing, which can mean soaking in oil (presumably olive) for several months, or can mean dry-curing olives, followed by a rubbing with oil.
Lye-curing, which uses a highly alkaline solution to extract the oleuropein.

We went with the brine option, in no small part because that's what I'd read about in a New York Times article last year. Perhaps I'll try dry-curing in salt someday, but brine seems the best and easiest.

Unlike lye-curing. The Romans would sometimes add wood ash to their olive brine to speed the process, though today's processors use straight-up lye. Ask your extension agent (if you live on California olive country) about home curing, and that's the method they'll give you. I don't know about you, but high-octane drain cleaner doesn't strike me as the best thing for food preparation. After all, the warning information includes fun little tips, like:

"Avoid all contact with organic tissue (including human skin, eyes, mouth, and animals or pets). Keep away from clothing. Avoid all contact with aluminum."
"...may cause chemical burns, permanent injury or scarring, and blindness."
"...may react with various sugars to generate carbon monoxide..."

And my personal favorite:

"Solvation of sodium hydroxide and/or potassium hydroxide is highly exothermic, and the resulting heat may cause heat burns or ignite flammables."

In other words: put this stuff in water, and you risk burning yourself and your possessions. Plus, it comes with a handy-dandy corrosive warning label that shows an image of freaky chemicals eating through flesh, just like the creature's blood in Alien eating through the spaceship floor. Though that's not entirely accurate, of course. It'd be more like the scene in Fight Club where "Jack" gets a chemical burn.

Karl and I, not eager to disfigure ourselves for the sake of a martini garnish, have elected to go with the brine option. In short, it went like this: fill glass jars of various sizes with olives and flavorings; add a bit of vinegar (optional); cover in a brine strong enough to float an egg; put a layer of oil to cover; seal (but not too tightly); wait. Six months, we think, which conveniently runs from equinox to equinox. The last step, of course, is to eat them, preferably at a party with lots of olives and martinis to go around.

I should mention that we've branched out in terms of flavorings, and Karl more so than me, in part because he used a number of much smaller jars.⁵ We used citrus - lemons, limes, oranges - as well as hot peppers of various sorts, garlic, celery, herbs, ginger, and two pantries' worth of spices. I remember using bay leaves, black pepper, coriander, mustard seed, cinnamon, and possibly others. Sumac, allspice, cardamom, star anise, and cloves were others that might be flavoring one or more jars, because I remember discussing them. All options were open, and we'll see how they pan out. Fortunately, we had the good sense to label everything for our future benefit.

Will it work out? I have no idea. The jars are busy fermenting - actually bubbling away - down in the fermentarium, so I'm excited. And in six months' time, if the fickle and mighty fermentarium spirits smile down⁶ upon us, there will be much rejoicing. And martini consumption.

* * * * *

¹Not even counting things - usually animals - that are especially poisonous or otherwise deadly, like fugu, the pufferfish, where extensive training is needed to separate the edible flesh (for sushi) from the highly toxic liver. Or poisonous snakes, such as rattlesnake and cobra, which hardly seem worth the effort.

²Though I wish we called it the "Ur-Ox", since that may be where "aurochs" comes from. A much more impressive name for a giant - supposedly almost six feet at the shoulder - and aggressive beast that gave Julius Caesar and his Roman legions pause.

³I didn't eat them, of course. Just the briefest touch of the tongue was worse than a bite of olive, and immediately. Yarf.

⁴Table olives and oil olives come from different varieties, though I imagine you could interchange them if you wanted to. The result might not be as ideal, but if you find yourself in sudden possession of an olive grove, you might as well put it to good use.

⁵He had a dozen 12 oz. or pint jars, and borrowed a few quarts from me. I have a total of four quarts; two half-gallons; and one gallon jar, all packed full.

⁶Or is it up? They live in the basement, after all, so the highest they could be isn't much above eye level.

Playing catch-up.

2008-09-18T13:29:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's been quite some time since I've posted much of anything here, though it's not for lack of interesting doin's a-transpirin'. So, I'll just cram the last month's worthwhile mentions in here all at once.

The Mighty Mighty Garden
I haven't mentioned much about the garden all summer, though it's been an overall success. There were occasional failures - the kale and leeks didn't get enough water early on; raccoons got most of the sweet corn; the Romanesco stubbornly refuses to create a head - but much of it has exceeded expectations. We had dinner for eight last weekend in a desperate attempt to use up the vast amounts of Lao eggplant and other vegetables in a fiery green Thai curry, with lots of sliced multicolored tomatoes for a mouth-cooling side dish.

It's been, as I tell myself every so often, a learning year. I'm already ankle-deep in planning for next year, with garlic arriving for planting next week. The spinach and mache should be planted for overwintering soon, too, so we'll see how they take. There's been so much food already that we'll have a thoroughly stocked basement to last us through the winter. Nuclear or not.

I was amused to note an article from the LA Times on too many tomatoes. Not a problem I'd ever expected to have, though we're toeing the line this year.

Oh, and pears, both Asian and European. More than I can even know what to do with, or even give away. Next year, I'll have to put a plan in place.

Fermentacular!
Speaking of garden bounty, I've had pretty good success with my first-ever attempt at cabbage. There's been a bit of a cabbage looper infestation in the brassicas, though the plants seem to be getting along well enough. Next year I'm planning to keep some organic Bt handy to quell the caterpillar munchies, though it seems like healthy plants can soldier on despite the pests.

I like cabbage and all, but even half a dozen smallish heads is a lot to use. And a lot of fridge space to give up. So today I've started up a first batch of sauerkraut, which will (in theory) ferment away in the basement for two weeks or so until it's sour, salty, and delicious.

Come Sunday, the cabbage will be joined by several jars of fresh olives, curing in several different types of brine. Two boxes of green Manzanillas are sitting on the dining room table at this moment, awaiting their six-month briny bath. Then, if I get off my duff and hop to it, I'll add some miso to the mix. My Japanese koji starters are here, too, with the cultures I need to make my own shoyu - a gallon at a time - as well as white, yellow, and red misos. Mmm. Moldy rice.

Speaking of tasty, tasty fungus...
Last I'd mentioned wild mushrooms, I still hadn't found much interesting, at least in the culinary sense. Well, that's all changed. After a long, dry period, the long arms of tropical storm Hanna drenched us, followed by waves of thunderstorms that gave all of the local fungi the cue to burst forth.

After an unimpressive hike through Bald Eagle State Forest, which didn't appear to get the Hanna-related deluge we did, I was able to find several meals' worth of mushrooms in the neighborhood and around town.² Agaricus campestris, the field mushroom; Lepiota americana, the American lepiota; and Calvatia cyathiformis, the vase-shaped puffball. Plus the probably-edible Lepiota naucinoides that looks almost exactly like the freakishly deadly Amanita virosa. Edible? Probably. Coming into the house? Not a chance.

All three of the edible ones are quite tasty, and different from each other. The field mushrooms are like a more flavorful version of the white button mushrooms you see in the supermarket, though less fleshy and best cooked as a whole cap (or halves) than in slices. The American lepiota is a bit deeper and richer in flavor, though still similar. The puffball, however, has a very mild flavor, and a soft, squishy texture that's almost marshmallow-like. I'd sliced it up into quarter-inch thick pieces, and fried it until browned and crispy at the edges in some butter, and they were quite good.

And speaking of fermented deliciousness...
Sometimes it's just easier to go with things that someone else has conveniently fermented (and distilled) ahead of time. Thus I have a new bottle of homemade bitters, made from apricot kernels and orange peel. I followed the same basic recipe as before, but skipped the spices. At first, it smelled only of orange, and I was getting disappointed until the amaretto-like aroma of the apricot kernels took over. Sure, they're toxic - though that doesn't keep them from sale in health food stores³ as a "dietary supplement" or even a snack food. Extracted into alcohol, and consumed as just a few drops from time to time in a cocktail, it seems, shouldn't mess me up too much.

Apricot kernels are also - so I hear - an occasional ingredient in ratafia, though I've been making mine with fruits and vegetables. Steep a cup of fruits, vegetables, herbs, or a mix in a bottle of wine, with a quarter cup each of vodka and sugar, for three weeks. Strain out the solids, bottle it up, and drink it up. Utterly delicious, and a great after-dinner drink. The first batches - apricot, plum, and peach with Thai basil - are almost gone, just in time for the next set of Green Zebra tomatoes with black peppercorns and cucumber with mint. In a few days, I'm planning to pick the first of the season's habanero peppers for an incendiary third round.

And for the extra-boozy option, there's the walnut brandy that's been steeping since early July. There was one part of the recipe that reminded me of Kim Severson's New York Times article on recipe deal breakers, which was when a line began, "At the beginning of September..."

Hasn't been a deal breaker for me, but then again, I wouldn't have gotten that far if I didn't have a pair of walnut trees in the backyard. Trees that have been feeding the squirrels instead of me, that is.

Back to school?
It's cooking class time again. This semester, it's vegetarian cooking basics. The first class, which covered knife skills while the students made hand-rolled sushi and Vietnamese summer rolls, offered up a reminder: the second class must cover recipe reading.

Sound silly? Most people seem to think so at first, but after multiple exchanges that go something like this...

Student: What do I do next?

Me: What does the recipe tell you to do?

Student: Umm... [looks down at recipe for what must be the first time] I put the rice and water in the pot?

Me: If that's what it says.

...you learn not to take basic literacy skills for granted. Misreading in one thing. I can accept mistakes.⁴ But relying on me to read the recipe to them won't cut it.

They're adults. I think they can manage to think for themselves for once. It might even be a good thing to learn.

* * * * *

¹Yet another dehydrator full of tomatoes is whirring away behind me, to add to the four quarts of dried tomatoes already done. Plus the jars of canned tomatoes, pickled cucumbers, beets, peppers, jams, and more. And the onions, potatoes, carrots, etc.

²I should note that I've been checking these mushrooms' characteristics and spore prints carefully against the several mushroom guidebooks that I own to be certain they're safe for eating. And even when I'm sure they're edible, I make sure to eat only very small portions the first time to see if I have an allergic reaction. Hasn't happened yet, but I don't want to find out after a plateful of mushroom ragout.

³They're called bitter almonds, too, because of the bitterness caused by small amounts of amygdalin, which the body converts into toxic cyanide. Eat enough of 'em, and you can kill yourself. Though since I could almost see and hear the smell of almonds after eating just one, I can't imagine how one would do that. Ugh.

⁴It isn't as though I don't make enough on my own. Without mistakes, I wouldn't know how to cook.

How to make a mushroom spore print.

2008-08-18T16:19:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

To make a mushroom spore print:

Find a mushroom. (Obviously.) Fresh, not too young or old, and ideally with a handful of others like it that you can take home, too. If you get especially lucky, and happen upon a group with some as little buttons¹ and others as mature mushrooms, take a variety.

Do be a responsible mushroomer and leave a few to propagate their species. If they're edible, and you eat them all, you won't have the same pleasure next year.
Get some white and black paper. Spores can be all sorts of colors, from white to black and a maddening array of subtly different shades in between. With two different backgrounds, it's easier² to make distinctions.
Place the spore-producing surface above the paper, half on white and half on black. If you can, leave a bit of stalk to elevate the cap above the paper, though it's not necessary. Cover the mushroom with a bowl, wax paper, or some such to keep it from drying out. A dry mushroom won't drop spores.
Wait. Several hours is good; overnight is ideal.
If you can, try to peer under the cap³ to see if a print has formed on the paper. You can lift the cap, too, though doing so before it's finished can result in a smudged print. It's still fine for identification, but doesn't look as sharp.
When it's ready, take the print to a place where you can view it in sunlight. Artificial light sources, such as incandescent and fluorescent, just can't provide the same full-spectral distribution you need to make a crucial distinction.⁴
Use that spore print - and other observations - to figure out just what it is that you brought home. And, if you like the print, you can hit it with a bit of artist's fixative and keep it. A good print looks sharp, indeed.

To identify, find yourself a good guide. Or better yet, several. My primary guide is Mushrooms of Northeastern North America by Bessette, et al. It's big, thorough, and has lots of pretty pictures.

To identify your mushroom:

Determine which category you should start in. In this book, your options are:
- Split Gill Family
- Chanterelles and Allies
- Gilled Mushrooms
- Boletes
- Polypores
- Tooth Fungi
- Cauliflower Mushrooms
- Branched and Clustered Corals
- Fiber Fans and Vases
- Jelly Fungi
- Crust and Parchment Fungi and Allies
- Puffballs, Earthballs, Earthstars, and Allies
- Stinkhorns
- Bird's-Nest Fungi
- Blueberry Galls and Azalea Apples
- Rusts and Smuts
- Morels, False Morels, and Allies
- Cup and Saucer Fungi
- Earth Tongues, Earth Clubs, and Allies
- Cordyceps, Claviceps, and Allies
- Carbon and Cushion Fungi
- Hypomyces and Allies
Got it? In this case, we've got gills. 90% of the time - probably more - you're here or in Bolete territory. Especially if you're picking things that look like mushrooms.
Work through the key as best you can. It helps to check the glossary for unfamiliar terms, such as: decurrent, amyloid, lamellulae, etc. It's sort of like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, where you read through the options, pick the one that suits best, and jump to that number.

"1. Stalk central to eccentric → 2.
1. Stalk absent to lateral → 26."

Off we go to number 2.
"2. Gills attached to decurrent; gills, cap flesh, or stalk exuding latex when cut..."

Nope. Not a Lactarius.

"2. As above, except latex absent; gills white to pale orange; lamellulae few or absent in many species; stalk lacking vertical fibers, snapping somewhat like a piece of chalk..."

Nope. Not near that brittle a stalk.

"2. Not as in either of the above choices, but spore print white to cream → 3.
2. Spore print pink, tan, yellow, or darker → 4."

Down to number 3.
"3. Universal veil slimy to glutinous..."

No universal veil.

"3. Universal veil present..."

Same deal. I'd spotted these in various stages of development, and there's no evidence of one. If it's been raining, especially, there's a chance that a universal veil could have been washed away.

"3. Entire mushroom usually very moist..."

Nope. It's a rather dry mushroom, with a texture like the supermarket button variety.

"3. Cap coated with loose granules..."

Nope.

"3. Cap white, tan, brownish, or reddish, usually distinctly scaly in age; gills free, white, close; partial veil present, usually leaving a ring on stalk; terrestrial, usually growing on dead plant debris (e.g., leaves, needles, wood chips); spores smooth, dextrinoid, amyloid, or inamyloid → Genus Lepiota and Allies."

That's our sample. But for the microscopic characteristics, everything matches. Which is great, because the next choice in the list includes the phrase "other characters exceedingly variable", which doesn't inspire too much confidence.
Skipping ahead to the Lepiota section, there's another Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, starting out with long, precise descriptions. Passing those that don't match leads to two choices: Lepiota naucinoides, edible, and Lepiota cepaestipes, poisonous. Turns out it's the latter, though both could be confused for a deadly Amanita species by a casual observer.

* * * * *

¹Or whatever the immature shape happens to be.

²But not always easy. Get used to the differences between cinnamon brown, rusty brown, and ochraceous, for starters.

³Keeping the cap elevated just slightly makes this much, much easier.

⁴I suggest trying to distinguish between similar shades of brown under incandescent light first, then under daylight. The perceptual difference is striking.

Garden bounty.

2008-07-28T17:30:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

The best of the garden's pleasures, of course, comes at this sort of moment:

That moment when you get inside with everything ripe, and think that, just a few months ago, all you had were a handful of little seeds. Especially, as in our case, when you've got something in your hand that you've never had successfully before. In this case, it's everything on the plate.

Technically, at least, because this is the first year I've had success growing my own seedlings. Sure, I've grown cucumbers from seed, though they didn't get far before the cucumber beetles destroyed them. And I suppose that summer squash aren't surprising, but the eggplant's thrilling. Even when we'd tried from purchased seedlings, the plants never looked half as good as the ones in the garden now. And those fruits that did start to grow were all ruined by something that took a single bite from each eggplant. Never ate more than that, which was rather frustrating. Presumably, if it didn't like the first one, the rest of them weren't going to taste any better.

On the plate, in case you're wondering, are: Listada de Gandia eggplant (the white and purple streaked ones); Lao Green Stripe eggplant (the white and green one); a cucumber (Parisian Pickling - the smaller ones are for cornichons); a zucchini (Black Beauty); a patty pan squash (Sunburst); and jalapeno and serrano peppers. We've been pulling more from the garden, too, including new potatoes, Dragon's Tongue snap beans, and scallions. Not to mention the greens, radishes, turnips, and other cold-weather crops from the spring. It's a lot of work - I've already spent several hours of my day weeding - but it feels worth it. Maybe it's just me, but is there anything quite like picking your dinner ripe from the backyard?

In a few minutes, I'm going out to see if the first Sun Gold tomatoes are ripe yet. They've been taunting us for days.

Orange bitters.

2008-07-23T11:45:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

I love a good martini:

As I make 'em, the recipe goes something like this:

Martini

Ingredients:
3 parts good gin (such as Hendrick's)
1 part dry vermouth¹
Dash orange bitters
Olives
Ice
Directions:
Add three or four ice cubes to a shaker, then pour in the gin and vermouth. Add a drop or two of orange bitters, to taste. Cover and swirl about for a moment, or shake if you're really feeling it.

Strain into a glass, and garnish with a toothpick loaded with olives. Like, say, three. Taste and add another drop of bitters if it needs a sharper edge.

Pretty straightforward, as long as you can find orange bitters. Which, living in Pennsylvania, is something I can't do easily. Next best thing? Make my own, of course.

To be honest, I have no idea if this is what orange bitters are supposed to be like, though I rather like them. Enough that I add a drop here and there to give a cocktail a nice edge. In a margarita, for example, it adds an extra dimension to the sweet and salty character, and the orange aroma fits in nicely. Ain't so bad in a Manhattan, either, though the traditional angostura bitters suit best.

A little Google work turned up one orange bitters recipe in a handful of places. It goes like this:

Orange bitters

Ingredients:
½ lb. dried bitter seville orange peel
1 pinch cardamom
1 pinch caraway
1 pinch coriander seeds
2 cups grain alcohol
Water
4 tablespoons caramel food coloring
Directions:
Chop the orange peel finely and mix it with the herbs and alcohol. Let it stand for 15-20 days in a sealed jar, agitating it every day.

Pour off spirits through a cloth and seal again.

Put the strained off seeds and peel in a saucepan, crush it, cover with boiling water and simmer for 5 minutes. Pour into another jar, cover, and let stand for 2 days. Strain this off and add it to the spirits. Add caramel coloring, filter again and let it rest until it settles perfectly clear. Target: 45% alc.

Sounds easy enough, except for a few minor details:

I can't get grain alcohol in Pennsylvania, and the drive to New Jersey, or whatever other state might have it readily available, is awfully hard to justify.
Dried bitter orange peel isn't cheap. At about $2.50 per ounce, it's better to pick up a pound ($12) at a homebrew shop.
Food coloring? Seriously? (Some versions of the recipe call for burnt sugar, i.e., caramel.) I don't like the way the angostura bitters pinken up a martini, and it seems like a concession to aesthetics.

So I swapped those out for Bacardi 151 and some fresh sour orange peel - why not? - from the grocery store. And skipped the caramel. At least this way, should it turn out nasty, I'm only out a few bucks. Fortunately, it worked out perfectly:

My modified recipe, for an aromatic, boldly orange-colored orange bitters is as follows:

Orange bitters

Ingredients:
Rind of three sour oranges, finely diced
1 pinch cardamom
1 pinch caraway
1 pinch coriander seeds
1 cup Bacardi 151 rum
¾ cup water
Directions:
Pack the diced orange peel - with the white pith - into a pint glass jar with the spices. Pour in the rum to cover, seal the jar, and set aside for at least two weeks, shaking at least once a day. Smell and taste every few days to see how it's progessing; the aroma and bitterness really build.

Strain off through a fine sieve, then through a coffee filter, saving the peel and spices. In a pot, crush the peel and spices, cover with the boiling water, and simmer for five minutes. Strain this liquid through the sieve and another coffee filter, and add ½ cup to the spirits. Seal tightly.

Allow the cloudiness to settle. This will seem to take forever; this batch sat for about a month until the cloudiness had sunk to the bottom. Strain through a coffee filter, bottle, and enjoy.

* * * * *

¹Or, for a sweet martini, swap out the dry vermouth for sweet, and the olives for a twist of orange peel.

Alpine strawberries.

2008-07-23T11:06:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Strawberries are genuinely awesome. And, for those who don't have the space for a bed of Sparkle or Honeoye or whatever, may I wholeheartedly recommend the Alexandria alpine strawberries?

Man, are they ever good. Small, about the size of the last joint on my pinky finger, and the plants don't produce tons and tons, but they are powerfully aromatic and delicious. They're almost like strawberry candy, with a sort of concord grape foxiness. Best of all, they do really well in pots. Find a relatively sunny spot, keep 'em well watered, and you've got tabletop strawberries for years to come. All for the price of a pack of seeds.

The mighty mushroom haul.

2008-07-06T18:04:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

I enjoy walking in the woods; it's generally relaxing, often great exercise, and increasing levels of engagement reward with more and more interesting things to see. There's just too much out there to take it all in.

Saturday, I went on a day hike with my dad and Ben, my sister's boyfriend, in the nearby State Forest lands. Ben hadn't really been on a hike since he was a kid, and my dad's been anxious to get out and get some exercise, though other obligations usually get in the way. So we picked a spot, parked the car, and just headed off. There was plenty to see, including vast fields of wild blueberries¹ ripening and ready for nibbling. Not much in the way of views, unfortunately, but I was busy staring at the ground for hours. This is, I discovered, a prime time for mushroom hunting.

Behold the haul:

I wasn't expecting to find much, but I did toss a few paper bags in my pack, just in case. Then, to my surprise, there was so much to find that I came home with my pack² completely full of mushrooms. Everything there on the table plus a monstrous bolete that ended up a bit too smashed for identification. With a cap about eight inches across and four inches high - plus stem - it was enormous. If I could have identified it, and it turned out to be edible, it would have been a meal for everyone.

Mushroom identification is, generally speaking, difficult. A few species are easy and straightforward; others are actually impossible. Of the thousands of different fungi growing in the central Pennsylvania woods, some sizable fraction is unidentifiable by anyone. Another chunk requires chemical tests and powerful microscopes to be certain. And often, even when you can figure out what it is - scientific name and all - there's no one who can say whether it's edible or not³. That doesn't mean it isn't fun to try, though.

When I arrived home, I spread them all out on paper, both black and white, and did my best to keep the same types together. With some, I only had one or two of the fruiting bodies. Of one type, I had eight. And some had made the trip back in better shape than others.

There were, of course, numerous types of mushrooms that didn't make the trip home with me. One rather prevalent was the tough-to-miss fly mushroom, Amanita muscaria. Orange and yellow, flecked with white, and alarmingly toxic. Even more alarming was what might have been Amanita verna or one of its close relatives, which get charming common names like "Destroying Angel". Sure, I brought a few home that turned out to be inedible, and at least one that's definitely poisonous. Next time, I can skip over those.

The reason for the two papers is to get what's called a spore print. Leave the spore-producing surface - gills, pores, etc. - still for a while, and the spores will fall onto the paper. Some are light-colored; some are dark; it's rarely apparent what to expect. With both black and white, you can be sure to get a good reading.

With that information in hand, and a selection of reference guides, it's time to examine characteristics. I'm limited in that regard, since I can't pretend to afford a microscope that can distinguish between amyloid and non-amyloid spore shapes, and I don't keep potassium hydroxide and other handy mycological solutions around. Generally, if identification needs that sort of thing, I'm not going to try to eat it. Even with a number of positively identified mushrooms in my bag, I opted not to eat any. Though I might the next time out⁴, since I know better what to look for.

I couldn't identify everything. In some cases, all I have is a possible genus. Sometimes not even that. There was only one that I knew for sure when I picked it up. For those who're curious, the mushrooms I found, more or less counterclockwise from upper left, are:

Craterellus fallax, the black trumpet. The only mushrooms I knew without even pausing to think, I'd've eaten them if they weren't infected with a white mold. Even though they're just a bite.
Possibly Lentaria byssiseda, but all I really know is that it's some sort of coral fungus. Most likely inedible.
Another guess for Mycena strobilinoides, though the genus seems likely. Not the sort of thing I'd want to put in my mouth, but it was definitely an attention-grabber, and gave one of the best spore prints.
Something in the Lactarius genus, so called because it exudes a milky fluid when cut. Some are edible; some aren't; this doesn't appear to be.
I don't know. Crepidotus something, maybe, but even that's a shot in the dark. Not food.
A small member of Boletellus, Boletus, or Chalciporus, I think, but nothing seemed to fit beyond that. Since it didn't give a good spore print, I can't be any more confident than that.
No real idea. Possibly something in the Leccinum genus. Or not.
Boletus affinis, which means it's actually edible. Not the most exciting mushroom around, from what the guides tell me, but it was exciting to get a positive identification for once.
The Chanterelle Waxy Cap, Hygrophorus cantharellus, which I'd expected might be poisonous out in the woods. Bright reddish-orange doesn't always suggest safe to me, but apparently these are.
Not sure again, though Cortinarius seems likely. Which means it's best left on the forest floor next time.
The Jack O' Lantern mushroom, Omphalina olearius, I think, unless it's the other poisonous false chanterelle. If I'd had an inkling earlier, I could have peeked at it late last night. Like fireflies, these mushrooms produce luciferin and luciferase, which makes them glow pale green when it's pitch black.
No clue. None whatsoever.
Boletus affinis var. maculosus, which is almost the same as another one of the edibles I brought home. Aside from the yellow-brown spots on this one's cap, it's really the same mushroom; the nice part is that those spots make it easily identifiable.
And last, the Bitter Bolete, Tylopilus felleus. Some folks mistake it for a tasty mushroom, and though it won't do you any harm, it's nasty bitter. Just a touch of the raw mushroom to the tongue leaves a taste that lingers, quite unpleasantly, for a minute or two. Though, should you be one of those rare people who lack the gene for sensing bitter flavors, it's apparently quite choice. Oddly enough.

* * * * *

¹They were a great trail snack. Sweet, unmistakably blueberry, and in such near-endless quantities that you could reach down, without slowing your pace, and swipe a small handful to enjoy.

²Which is an entirely inappropriate way to carry a fungus harvest, but I needed my hands for rock scrambling, and I couldn't bring myself to leave it all there.

³In other words, it's not. Given that the world of mycotoxins is poorly understood, at best, and runs the likelihood of being the worst food poisoning you'll ever have.

⁴Some of mine weren't in prime shape when they got here, and the need to wait until a house full of company had left meant that a few picked up some mold growth. And some were in such small quantities that the half-forkful they'd have been after cooking wouldn't justify the cleanup.

Daisy.

2008-06-30T12:44:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

We have a new friend hanging about the house these days:

This is Daisy. She's a yellow lab/terrier mix (we think) who came home with us from the Centre County PAWS shelter in State College yesterday. Her goal in life, as near as we can tell, is to be your bestest friend ever. Doesn't matter who you are. Especially if you're willing to rub her belly.

Backyard blueberries.

2008-06-28T16:54:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Boy, when the blueberries are ready for picking, they are ready. A week ago, they were getting dangerously close, and now they're ripe. From two of the three bushes - the third's still ripening - in half an hour's worth of picking, we loaded up on berries for freezing.

So, it was a quart every ten minutes. In addition to the handfuls we ate while picking, of course. After that, we had to call it off so that we could get ready for a picnic this evening; there are still plenty of good berries waiting for us. Which is a good thing, since I'd like to stock up for another year's worth of blueberry pancakes. And cobblers. And jam. And granola. And so on.

CSA + Pig Parts.

2008-06-13T16:12:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

'Twas the first CSA pickup for us today, and, all in all, not too bad for the middle of June:

It's the sort of goodies we expected from the Tewksburys. Clockwise from the left, we have: a head of frisee; a bag of glorious salad mix (full of a wide variety of greens, herbs, flowers, etc.); a bag of spinach; easter egg radishes; carrots; garlic scapes; and, in the middle, shell peas. Having picked all of this up after a (rather restrained) trip to our local growers' market¹, it's like a maddening game of Tetris trying to fit it all into the fridge.

Not that the growler of beer I picked up yesterday is helping matters.

And, to be honest, today's market trip was restrained only in reference to vegetables. My "unusual" order of pig parts arrived today, which more than filled the larger of our two coolers.² Ask for animal pieces usually thrown away, and you shall receive. For the measly sum of $22, I am now the proud owner of half a dozen uncured ham hocks, four pounds of pork liver, about five pounds of pork back fat, and a pig's head. In addition, I picked up some uncured jowls and a shoulder roast - with the liver, for a friend's order for scrapple - and a chicken. Which, with the pork fat, is bound for chorizo.

Honestly, I have no idea how long it'll take me to eat all of this. Good thing I have hungry friends.

* * * * *

¹Which, I may have mentioned before, is the closest thing I have to employment these days. It means, in essence, writing the weekly newsletter and maintaining the website. Fancy? No. But recipe research alone keeps me plenty busy.

²Good thing I thought to bring along the backup cooler, too. And that we have a chest freezer to put it all in.

The backyard.

2008-05-22T21:16:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

In between the rain showers and gusts of wind, I took advantage of the sunshine to take an amble about the backyard. Among today's interesting sights:

The bright red peonies that, one weekend, burst forth from what had looked like an odd, grassless patch behind the deck. And, hiding in the grass near the blueberry bushes:

A young bluebird, just learning to fly. I'd known that its parents were comfortably nested in the bluebird box, and today's the first day I've seen the female in quite some time. As she and her mate made every attempt to lure me away from the young 'un.

Duck rinds.

2008-05-21T16:48:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

There's something undeniably delicious about duck. They're not particularly meaty birds, though what you'll find on one is going to have a deep, almost red-meat-like quality to it. In fact, when I buy one, as I did the other day, I'm rarely planning something like roast duck. A chicken's easier to work with, and can feed more per pound of bird. Not to mention per dollar.

I'm pretty well convinced that the best thing about a duck is its fat. It's tasty enough on the duck, though it can be tough to render enough away during cooking to get the skin all crispy. My solution is to avoid the problem entirely. The legs become confit, which is the tastiest duck preparation I know. And not only does it taste great, but a little goes a long way, enough so that Sharon and I can happily share a single confit duck leg for dinner, using it to accent some carefully-prepared vegetables. The breasts will probably end up cured and smoked, ready to be thinly sliced alongside a cheese plate.

The rest of the bird? Well, the bones are going into stock, but that's not so exciting. But carefully trimmed of skin and fat deposits, it leaves me with:

Duck cracklings. They're the duck equivalent of pork rinds. Cut up the skin and fat, render it all down over low heat, and you're left with crispy chunks of duck skin and a significant amount of cooking fat. The duck fat - more than a cup, off of one little bird - will be used at pretty much every opportunity¹. The cracklings, just sitting there on the countertop, have long since been eaten.

And though this is a bit of a digression, I must admit that I rather like pork rinds. Though I've never done anything with them remotely as cool as the pork rind reconstruction on Bent Objects.

* * * * *

¹By which I mean, every time I remember I have it in the refrigerator. Since olive oil lives within arm's reach of the stove, it's pretty much default when cooking.

Kimchi. Or something like it.

2008-05-19T23:34:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Sometimes, making food takes a little time. Plus a little cross-the-fingers wild hope.

But, aside from burying it in the ground, it's pretty much what I'd imagined making kimchi would be like.

The whole process went like this: Matt wanted to make kimchi. He's made fermented pickles before, as well as various alcoholic beverages¹ with varying degrees of success, and this was just another thing to try.

If you're going to make a mess of the kitchen chopping vegetables, you might as well invite some friends. So Karl and I headed over to join in the festivities. Karl's attempted kimchi on two previous occasions, one of which was successful, the other not so much. I have just one failed fermented pickle attempt under my belt. Ruth, our "honorary Korean"², couldn't attend.

Given that early May isn't vegetable bounty season here in Pennsylvania, we made a trip to the grocery store, pretty much clearing them out of chinese celery cabbage. Measurements weren't really all that crucial³ here, so we picked up some daikon, carrots, scallions, garlic, ginger, and dried chillis. We picked up so much cabbage, in fact, that the scale in the self checkout lane kept getting confused until we split it into four groups for individual weighing.

On day one, we chopped cabbage, grated carrots, sliced daikon and added a hefty salt brine. Matt didn't have measuring spoons, so we just ballparked it:

Three containers, full of vegetables and salt water, sat overnight beneath weights. The next day, we drained off the brine and took a taste. The book recommended rinsing only if the cabbage tasted too salty, so we left it as is and started chopping the rest of the ingredients: piles of scallions, a good quantity of ginger and chillis, and loads of garlic. Enough garlic that the entire basement smelled of it for the first day. Maybe it still does, and I'm simply accustomed to it.

With the aromatics went some mashed anchovies, a good dose of fish sauce, and a couple of dollops of fermented red bean paste Matt's fiancee had picked up in Korea. Some more brine went on top to keep it all immersed, and then we covered them back up again. Matt and Karl have been keeping theirs in the kitchen; mine's been living in the basement.

In the Fermentarium, to be precise. To digress briefly: the previous owners of our house had the basement enlarged from the contractor's original drawings to create a full-height space instead of a crawlspace beneath part of the house. It had been a wood shop, loaded with all sorts of equipment, and with its own door⁴. I don't have that sort of power-hungry equipment, so now it's home to lots of shelving that may or may not be used for homebrewing, fermenting pickles, dry-curing meats, aging cheeses, and maybe even some miso. If there's a place in the house for promoting all sorts of microbial shenanigans, it's the Fermentarium.

In addition to letting the kimchi ripen in a cooler place, I added extra salt to my brine to further slow the process. Matt's is already pretty much set, but I'm letting mine get funkier. We compared them last week. The difference wasn't great, but enough that you could tell. We'll try again sometime soon.

In the meantime, I have some pleasantly spicy pickles, redolent of garlic, with a sour pickle funk that evolves every day:

Maybe I'll bury the next batch in the backyard. Just to see what happens.

* * * * *

¹Ciders and ginger beer, at least that I've tried. I've yet to have him over for a beer-brewing afternoon.

²She's not the least bit Korean, but she has made successful kimchi before.

³For one thing, we'd left the book with the recipe at Matt's house. Not that it was too terribly specific on this point.

⁴With a hefty deadbolt on it. This, despite the fact that the exterior access door to the basement had no lock. So, presumably, thieves could walk in and steal anything in the house except the lathe and drill press.

English muffins.

2008-04-13T11:34:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

It's taken a couple rounds of recipe tweaking, but I think I can finally say that I've got a pretty good recipe for English muffins:

This all started when I was researching the baking classes. I made notes on a variety of different bread recipes that I wanted to try for myself at some point - not necessarily for the class - and I've been fiddling with some of them, off and on, for a while. The most important adjustment I've made is to shift most of my breadmaking to weight measurements instead of volume, which means I'm able to produce more consistent results, and I'm more easily able to refine a recipe that's close but not perfect.

English muffins are the perfect example of that. The original recipe came from The World Encyclopedia of Bread and Bread Making by Christine Ingram and Jennie Shapter, a British book with lots of pictures that I'd picked up, years ago, in the bargain section of a Borders or Barnes & Noble. It calls for a cup and a half (or a little more) of milk per four cups of flour¹ with a little added sugar - presumably for the yeast. The dough isn't kneaded, but is beaten together for several minutes to make it smooth and elastic. Roll, cut, proof, and cook on a lightly greased griddle.

What puzzled me, though, was that the accompanying picture, of a split English muffin, looks like a flat dinner roll. The interior has the soft, slightly ragged crumb of a kneaded, milk-based bread. Perhaps it's because I've only ever seen the standard Thomas' version, but I expect that crater-like interior. The nooks and crannies, as they say.

So I adjusted. The half-teaspoon of sugar's gone; I don't need it with instant yeast. My electric griddle's non-stick, and easier to clean if I leave it ungreased. And I don't feel like beating the dough for five minutes, so I stop after a minute. If that much.

Most importantly, though, I've increased the amount of milk used, which makes it easier to get those big air pockets inside. As additional insurance, I work the dough as little as possible - so no more punching down to get the bubbles out - and for all of this simplification and work reduction, I'm getting better and better results. This might be the simplest bread recipe I have.

These English muffins are great with butter or jam or both, though my personal favorite is to make egg sandwiches. Fried eggs over easy, with a little bit of a runny yolk, make a fine version, and cheese is definitely a plus. A bit of bacon and a dash of vinegary hot sauce can only improve things. The best, though, is to make little frittatas: scramble together an egg with some milk, cheese, and whatever additional stuff sounds good - last time it was mushroom and onion - and cook on the griddle in egg rings. Less messy than trying to layer it all on top, for one, and they look pretty sharp when stacked up.

English Muffins
Makes six or seven

Ingredients
270g bread flour (approx. 2 cups)
225g milk, lukewarm (approx. 1 cup less one Tablespoon)
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon instant yeast
Cornmeal or flour for dusting
Directions
Mix together the flour, yeast and salt in a bowl, whisking thoroughly to combine. Add the milk, stirring until fully incorporated; there is no need to work it until smooth. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until doubled in size, about an hour and a half.

Turn the dough out onto a floured board, and dust the top with flour. Be sure to use enough flour to prevent the dough from sticking to the board or the rolling pin; this is a time when extra flour is not necessarily a bad thing. Roll out to about 3/8-inch thickness. Cut into rounds with a biscuit cutter. Gently press scraps together, kneading as little as possible, to cut additional English muffins. As with biscuits, the subsequent muffins may be a little more misshapen than the first set.

Let the muffins proof on a sheet liberally dusted with cornmeal or flour, covered with plastic wrap, for half an hour. Meanwhile, preheat a griddle to 325°F (medium heat). Cook the muffins for about eight minutes per side, and allow to cool on a wire rack.

Since I'm one for toasted English muffins, I'm more likely to make these in the evening, but they're easy enough to prepare fresh for a morning brunch. Just reduce the quantity of yeast - a scant half teaspoon, say - and use the milk at refrigerator temperature. Start them before you go to bed, and they'll be set for cutting and proofing come morning.

* * * * *

¹Most of the recipes in the book make large quantities of bread, so I've tended to scale them down for my own use.

Baking Class - Cakes.

2008-04-03T18:40:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

Well, the baking classes are finished for the semester. Definitely fun while they lasted, though it'll be nice to have Wednesdays back again. Until next semester, anyhow; I've already been offered the chance to do another class then. This time, I think I'll focus on basic cooking techniques.

Which definitely includes a session on how to read a recipe. And another on knife skills. Boy, won't those be interesting.

CAKES
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

ABOUT SPONGE CAKES

The sponge cake, with its variations and eventual reduction to boxed mixes, is the quintessential birthday cake. Though the specific variations are many, they tend to fall into two distinct categories: American and European. The former, which is by far the most common in the United States, has relatively high proportions of eggs and sugar, and rarely contains butter. The texture is moist and tender, and they’re quite good eaten plain, lightly frosted, or with fresh fruit. The European versions, biscuit and genoise, are drier and less tender than the American sponge cake, and are generally components of elaborate desserts. They are often soaked with liquor syrups and layered with rich buttercreams and sliced fruits.

THE INCREDIBLE, EDIBLE EGG

In a traditional, unleavened sponge cake, eggs are primarily responsible for the light, airy texture. This is due to some of the unique characteristics of egg whites and egg yolks, especially when separated. Eggs, perhaps more than any other ingredient, are responsible for some of the most spectacular tricks in the kitchen.

Although it’s possible to find duck, turkey, quail, ostrich and all sorts of other eggs if you know where to look, American cooking depends on the everyday chicken egg. Generally, unless otherwise specified, this means “large” eggs, but it’s possible to adjust quantities if you only have medium or jumbo. Most general purpose cookbooks have conversion charts for just that purpose.

The Yolk. About a third of the contents of the egg, the yolk contains a variety of useful chemical components: water, for the most part; fats; proteins; some cholesterols; and lecithin, a phospholipid that’s remarkably handy for making emulsions like mayonnaise. In most baking recipes, egg yolks provide a rich, eggy flavor; though it’s not apples to apples, think of a sponge cake (with yolks) compared to an angel food cake (whites only). There are exceptions, such as zabaglione and sabayons, which use heated, whisked yolks to create a silky foam, but egg yolks are primarily a source of flavor and a texture enhancer.

The White. The other two thirds of the egg, the white contains: lots of water, around 90%; trace amounts of vitamins, minerals, fatty materials, and glucose; and several different proteins that help produce, set, and stabilize foams, among other culinary tasks. Whole eggs can be used in custards, where the proteins, when carefully cooked, will set into a smooth gel; they can even be used to create an airy foam when heated properly, as for a genoise cake. But egg whites alone are capable of producing foams unlike anything else in the kitchen.

It’s a simple experiment to create foam from egg whites. Just whisk vigorously in a bowl, and they will first start to foam with large bubbles that soon multiply into smaller and smaller bubbles. Eventually, the bubbles themselves become too small to see, and the foam expands and expands, reaching eight or more times its original volume. Like any foam, from soap bubbles to whipped cream, this will settle and separate over time, and so needs to be consumed quickly or set, either with the addition of starches or gelatin, or by the application of heat. Heat, in particular, is a permanent change, as the proteins unfold and coagulate, reinforcing the bubbles walls into a solid, airy form.

Aside from the difficulty of whipping an egg white foam by hand, there are several basic chemical components that can help or hinder the creation of the foam. The basics are:
Egg yolk. The fats within the egg yolk will prevent the formation of a foam by competing with the egg white proteins in the spaces where they want to connect, without offering any structural support. When heated, the yolk’s proteins can overcome some of this problem, but as a rule it’s best to whip an egg foam in a clean bowl, free of traces of yolk. Yolk doesn’t pose a problem once the foam has formed, but only at the outset.

Oils and fats. These have the same effect as egg yolk, so it’s best to be careful. They won’t absolutely prevent foaming, but they’ll make it much, much more difficult.

Detergents. Chemically similar to fats, which is one reason they’re so great at removing grease, detergents cause the same problems with foam formation, so be sure to rinse and dry bowls well. Plus, they taste truly awful.

Salt. Salt weakens the overall foam structure by competing with proteins for bonding sites, making it harder to whip and less stable. Salt should be added to the other components of a dish, rather than the foam.

Water. Though very few recipes call for water, it can be used to create a lighter, airier foam by diluting the egg white proteins. These foams are less stable, however, and too much will keep them from forming.

Sugar. Sugar can both help and hinder. If added at the start, it will delay foaming and reduce the overall lightness; some recipes call for this, in order to create a firm, dense foam, but it doubles the work. If added once the foam has started to form, often at the soft peaks stage, sugar can help to stabilize a foam. It does this by holding on to water, preventing it from draining away.

Acids. Although proteins are responsible for foam formation, they can also cause its downfall by swapping out the existing sulfur-hydrogen bonds in the egg proteins for sulfur-sulfur bonds with adjacent proteins, squeezing out the air. Adding more available hydrogen, in the form of a little acid, greatly minimizes that process. Per egg white, use ½ teaspoon of lemon juice or 1/8 teaspoon or cream of tartar, a salt made from tartaric acid, a winemaking byproduct.

Copper. Cooking tradition sometimes calls for whipping egg whites in a copper bowl, which produces a more stable foam. This works because the copper binds to sulfur, doing the same work as a little added acid. Silver works, too – but since bowls made from either are inordinately expensive, you’re best off with a pinch of cream of tartar.
One last note on eggs: the proteins in both the yolk and white are temperature-sensitive. Too much heat will cause them to curdle, which is undesirable in just about every instance except scrambled eggs. When recipes call for mixing a hot liquid with eggs, they need to be tempered first. To do this, add a small amount of the hot liquid to the eggs, whisking thoroughly. This will help raise the eggs’ temperature without overcooking them, so that they can be added to the hot liquid without curdling.

CAKE FLOUR

Cake flour is an innovation from the early 20th century, made from very finely milled, low-protein wheat flour. It’s strongly bleached with chlorine dioxide or chlorine gas, which enables the starch to absorb water much more readily in the presence of large amounts of sugar, and allows fats to bind more readily. It isn’t directly interchangeable with pastry or other low-protein flours, although it is possible to use all-purpose or pastry flour mixed with corn, potato, or arrowroot starch. Some cakes are even made with no flour at all, but use only pure starch or similar ingredients, such as chestnut flour.

ICINGS

Icings originally began as a means to keep the food underneath from drying out. The first were simple syrup glazes, though they’ve now evolved into a more elaborate variety of choices. Typical icings are made from powdered sugar, a little water, and sometimes some added fat, often butter or cream. Some may include corn syrup, which helps prevent the sugar from forming coarse crystals, creating a glossy surface; the added fats will also help reduce sugar crystallization.

Some simple icings may simply take a fat (solid at room temperature) such as butter, cream cheese, or vegetable shortening, and whip in air and sugar to create a sweet, light, spreadable mass. In this case, the sugar crystals must be ground fine to keep them from feeling grainy on the tongue; the finer grades of powdered sugar are the common choice. Other frostings require cooking, and typically use egg proteins or flour starches to create body. In these kinds, sugar crystal size is unimportant, because the sugar is dissolved in liquid during the cooking process.

Some of the common types of cake icings and frostings include:
Fondant. A version of fondant candy, which is often used as a filling or a coating for other candies. It produces a translucent, satin glaze typical of petits fours and some European cakes. The icing differs from the candy filling in that it is warmed and thinned with a simple syrup to a pourable consistency. Given the clarity of the finished glaze, it cannot be used to hide imperfections; it is sometimes applied over a layer of buttercream or other frosting that gives a smooth, even appearance.

Buttercream. One of the classic frostings for decorative cakes, buttercreams require mixing a cooked sugar syrup into beaten eggs (or egg yolks), then working in a large quantity of butter to produce a smooth, spreadable frosting. Due to the large proportion of butter, the consistency of buttercreams varies with temperature.

Ganache. The same as the center of a chocolate truffle, a ganache is a mixture of chocolate and heavy cream. Butter can be included in addition to or in place of the cream, with similar results. Typically, the chocolate is chopped into fine pieces, and hot cream is poured over, melting the chocolate; different proportions of chocolate and cream will give different consistencies. Most versions are pourable when warm and spreadable when cooled to room temperature.

Quick. “Quick” icings rely on the thickening ability of the cornstarch in powdered sugar. The typical ratio is approximately a quarter pound of butter to a pound of powdered sugar, with just enough added liquid to thin the consistency to the desired point. These icings may be cooked or not; cooking is done in a double boiler to avoid melting the sugar, which would make the texture grainy.

Cream cheese. Cream cheese frostings are essentially sweetened, butter-enriched cream cheese, beaten to a smooth texture. Quick and easy, they are prone to overmixing, which can break down the cream cheese and make the frosting too soft to hold its shape. Cream cheese frostings, since they don’t depend on the chemical properties of sugar to form their structure, can be made anywhere from barely to very sweet.

Royal icing. Unlike most other icings, royal icing is primarily for decoration, rather than for eating. A mixture of egg whites and sugar, it is extremely stiff and traditionally used to create ornate detailing for wedding cakes. It dries hard and pure white, which looks elegant, but it tastes like hard, chalky sugar.

Sugar glaze. Sugar glazes are basically simple sugar syrups, which can be used to create a thin, translucent glaze over the surface of a cake. These are typically used for plain, rich cakes that need little extra adornment, such as pound cake, to provide a shiny crust and a hint of additional sweetness.
TYPES OF CAKES

The term “cake” may describe any of a wide variety of baked goods, ranging from quickbreads – such as coffee cake – to unleavened, egg-foam mixtures like a true sponge cake. Even dense confections, such as flourless chocolate cakes and fruit cakes fall into the general category. Cheesecakes, despite the name, are cheese and egg custards, not cakes; only the general shape and typical wedge servings are cake-like.

Just some of the possible examples of cakes include:
Quick cakes. Quick cakes are, as the name suggests, quick and simple to prepare. Though considered cakes, they are prepared in much the same manner as quickbreads. Sometimes baking in a cake pan or the addition of a layer of icing is all that separates the two groups. Some examples include apple cake, carrot cake, and virtually all vegan cake recipes, which cannot include any dairy or eggs.

Gingerbread. Gingerbreads are some of the oldest varieties of baked goods, with the exception of breads. Like quick cakes, they are easy and fast to prepare, and there are a wealth of different ways to make it. What all have in common is the use of spices, including ginger – sometimes dried, sometimes fresh – and molasses, which provides much of the characteristic color and flavor. Gingerbread batters also tend to be thinner than many other cake batters, which can make them more prone to overmixing and toughness, so it’s best to use a light hand when mixing.

Pound cakes and butter cakes. Pound cakes, known as quatres-quarts in French (four quarters), are so called because the original recipe called for four ingredients: a pound each of flour, sugar, butter and eggs. Since the invention of baking powder in the mid-nineteenth century, recipes for pound cakes and the related butter cakes have become much more varied, including a wide range of ingredients in the lighter, much easier to prepare, versions. Due to the high proportion of butter in these cakes, the taste and quality genuinely suffers when replaced with shortening or margarine.

Foam cakes and sponge cakes. Foam cakes, of which sponge cakes are a subset, are based on a high proportion of eggs. Beating eggs (or just whites) into a stable foam provides the delicate structure and most, if not all of the leavening; some recipes call for additional baking powder for added lift. American sponge cakes are light, delicate and moist; European sponge cakes, such as genoise and biscuit, are drier and less tender, though no less flavorful.

Chiffon cakes. Chiffon cakes are a variation on foam cakes invented in 1927 by Hollywood insurance salesman Harry Baker, who catered cakes for private parties on the side. The key difference is that the fat used is oil, rather than butter or shortening, which can’t hold onto bubbles like solid fats can. The egg foam, bolstered with baking powder, gives a chiffon cake its lift and lightness; oil lends it moistness, even when refrigerated.

Angel food cakes. Angel food cakes are essentially sponge cakes without the egg yolks or butter. This makes for an exceptionally delicate and airy cake, and fat-free to boot. Angel food cakes are cooked in a specific pan just for the purpose, a tube pan with a removable bottom.

Cupcakes. True cupcakes can be made from any cake recipe, baked in muffin pans; most have a top layer of icing, though this isn’t strictly necessary. As cakes will go stale more quickly than muffins of the same size and shape, paper liners do a good job of keeping them moist and fresh longer.

Fruitcakes. Fruitcakes are essentially butter cakes liberally studded with fruit, either dried or candied, and nuts, then often soaked and preserved by soaking in spirits. When made from good ingredients, a fruitcake can be a rich, intense dessert for a holiday or other special occasion. Some recipes are even intended to mature over a period of a year or more; they’re often recipes surviving through generations, originally intended as a way to preserve a bountiful fruit harvest throughout the year.

Flourless chocolate cakes. Like sponge cakes, flourless chocolate cakes or tortes rely on egg foams to provide leavening. Without the structural backbone of flour’s starch, however, these cakes are much denser and moister. They also tend to be extremely rich, with large amounts of eggs, butter, cream and chocolate, though often not overly sweet.

AMERICAN SPONGE CAKE
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking
Serves 8 to 10

INGREDIENTS
1 cup sifted cake flour
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup sugar
7 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon orange zest
3 tablespoons water
7 large egg whites
½ teaspoon cream of tartar
DIRECTIONS
Have all ingredients at room temperature. Preheat the oven to 325° F. Have ready an ungreased 9-inch springform pan. Sift together the flour and salt three times, then return to the sifter.

In a bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, 2/3 cup sugar, and the vanilla until thick and pale yellow. Beat in the lemon and orange zest and water. Sift the flour mixture over the top, but do not mix in.

In a large bowl, whisk together the egg whites and cream of tartar until soft peaks form. The add the remaining 1/3 cup sugar and beat until the peaks are stiff, but not dry. Using a rubber spatula, fold one quarter of the egg whites into the yolk mixture. Then fold in the remaining whites.

Scrape into the pan and spread evenly. Bake until the top springs back when lightly pressed and a toothpick comes out clean, about 40 to 45 minutes. Allow to cool upside down for at least an hour and a half. Unmold by sliding a thin knife around the edge to detach the cake from the pan; remove the pan side and bottom and allow to finish cooling right side up on a rack.
NOTES
This cake must cool upside-down for at least ninety minutes to retain its delicate texture. Until the protein/starch network has cooled, it cannot even support its own weight and will deflate. Likewise, the cake pan must remain ungreased, lest the warm cake simply fall out while cooling upside-down.

Store this cake covered, at room temperature. A layer of icing will help prevent the cake from drying out.

QUICK ICING
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking
Makes about 1 cup

INGREDIENTS
2 cups powdered sugar, sifted if lumpy
4 Tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
3 to 4 Tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/8 teaspoon salt
DIRECTIONS
Beat together the sugar and butter until smooth. Add the milk, vanilla, and salt and beat until smooth. Adjust the texture with additional powdered sugar or milk if necessary.

To store, cover the surface directly with plastic wrap. This will keep for three days at room temperature or three weeks refrigerated. Before using, soften and stir until smooth.
NOTES
The icing will thicken as it stands, so it’s best to work quickly when icing cakes, especially those with a delicate texture. Thorough stirring will help loosen it up, as will the addition of a little extra liquid to thin it out.

More on Wisconsin cheese.

2008-03-30T21:27:00.003-04:00

Lewisburg.

The New York Times gives a nod to some of Wisconsin's finest cheesemakers, many of whom I can wholeheartedly support: Fantôme; Bleu Mont; Hook's; Dreamfarm; Uplands; Carr Valley. The last of which is mentioned in conjunction with their "Cocoa Cardona" cheese, a fine example of the new Wisconsin artisanal cheese world that happens to be in our refrigerator. (It's available at Wegman's sometimes - so is the Uplands Pleasant Ridge Reserve, among others.) So, to those who can still buy these phenomenal cheeses on a weekly basis, do know that I'm jealous.

Baking Class - Cookies.

2008-03-27T10:12:00.001-04:00

Lewisburg.

Sharon asked me, as I was headed out the door to teach my students how to make chocolate chip cookies, if I thought we'd even make it past the cookie dough stage. I'm pleased to say that we did make quite a number of cookies, though at least one student went home feeling woogy from eating too much dough. Here're the baked results:

Those are all student-baked cookies, in their chewy, crispy, and cakey variations (left to right). Granted, they do seem to have a little trouble with reading and following simple directions¹, but everything still worked out pretty well. Especially when I'm leaning over shoulders so that I can call things to a quick halt if necessary. In the next series of classes, it looks like I'll need to spend some time discussing how one is actually supposed to read a recipe.

COOKIES
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

ABOUT DROP COOKIES

Although there are many, many different kinds of cookies, drop cookies are some of the most common ones in America. Usual examples include oatmeal raisin cookies and the ever-popular chocolate chip cookies. Like almost all cookies, they contain significant amounts of fat and sugar in proportion to flour, which make for a distinctive rich and sweet flavor. Beyond that, however, a range of ingredients and mixing techniques can produce cookies with a great diversity of textures. Drop cookies constitute a group – one with a wide range of flavors and textures in it – made from a soft dough that is scooped onto a baking sheet by the spoonful. During baking, these round balls of dough spread out into the characteristic cookie shape.

THE CREAMING METHOD

Creaming is essential to making a good drop cookie. Unlike in yeast breads, where the kneading process develops lots of tiny air pockets to be filled with expanding leavening gases, cookies need to have air bubbles worked inside without creating gluten. This process, called creaming, mixes the cooking fat, usually butter, with sugar; as the two are mixed, the rough edges of the sugar crystals tear tiny holes into the fat. As these holes seal over, they trap in tiny bubbles of air. You can see the effect of this as the volume of the sugar/fat mixture expands by up to a third and the color of it lightens. During baking, these pockets expand, raising the cookies and giving them their characteristic lightness.

Creaming can be done by hand, or with an electric mixer. If creaming by hand, always be sure that the butter is fully softened before working it; softened butter is at the stage, about room temperature, where it is soft and malleable without melting. Electric stand mixers work best, and can effectively cream even cold butter, although they’re quite expensive. An electric hand mixer doesn’t do the best job, due to the shape of the thin metal beaters, but is a fair compromise between cost and arm power.

DROP COOKIE VARIATIONS

Drop cookies are easy to make, and easy to adjust to your particular taste. Here are a few ways to modify the basic chocolate chip recipe below to get different final results:
Flour. Cake flour can hold less moisture than all-purpose, which leaves more of the water in the recipe available for steam; hence, cake flour produces puffier, cakier cookies. Bread flour is more likely to produce gluten, and so will make chewier cookies. It also holds on to more moisture, resulting in a slightly moister cookie.

Sugar. White sugar, for various reasons, helps cookies to spread while baking, and produces a crispier cookie once cooled. Brown sugar, due to the presence of molasses, holds on to much more moisture, resulting in a moister, chewier cookie. By tipping the ratio of white to brown sugar in one direction or the other, you can change the final cookie texture.

Fat. Butter has a relatively low melting point, which allows cookies more time to spread before setting during baking, making for flatter, crispier cookies. Margarine and shortening melt at higher temperatures, allowing more time for the cookie to rise, and less to spread, producing cakier cookies. Melting the butter before mixing with the sugar will produce very few bubbles during creaming, making for a denser, chewier cookie.

Leavening. Baking soda raises the pH of the dough, resulting in a higher set temperature during baking; this gives the cookies more time to spread. Increasing the quantity of baking soda by up to fifty percent will make for crispier cookies. Baking powder, on the other hand, doesn’t affect the pH of the dough, which allows for a lower set temperature. This, combined with its extra leavening power, causes cookies to rise more, producing a cakier texture. Replace the baking soda one-for-one with baking powder for this effect.

Eggs. Eggs tend to produce puffiness in baked goods, so replacing one egg with ¼ cup of milk will make for a flatter, crispier cookie. Egg whites also tend to dry out baked goods, so replacing one egg white – while keeping the yolk – with 2 Tablespoons of milk will make for a chewier cookie.

Other ingredients. Chocolate chips can be replaced with nuts, raisins, or anything else that happens to sound good. Likewise, the vanilla can be replaced with an equal quantity of another extract, spirit, or liqueur; the use of orange extract, bourbon, or even strong coffee can add a subtle but interesting variation to the usual chocolate chip cookie flavor. Finally, it’s simple and easy to add ground spices to the dry ingredients to change the flavor. Anything that goes with chocolate, from cinnamon to chilli peppers, works well.

Temperature. Cold dough will spread less in the oven, as the exterior sets quicker compared to the center of the cookie. For a cakier cookie, place the mixed cookie dough in the refrigerator to cool before baking.
TYPES OF COOKIES

There is a near-endless variety of cookie recipes available, with many, many different ways of preparing them. American cookies tend to fall into five basic categories:
Drop cookies. Chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, among others. These are made from a soft dough that is scooped onto a baking sheet by the spoonful.

Cut-out cookies. Sugar cookies and butter cookies. Made from a stiffer dough than drop cookies, which allows it to hold shape while baking, these are rolled out and cut into shapes with cookie cutters.

Hand-shaped cookies. Ladyfingers and madeleines. These are made from batters that are stiffened by chilling, then piped or molded into shape before baking.

Bar cookies. Brownies and nut bars. These cookies are shaped after baking, when cut from a pan. They are baked from a batter spread in a shallow pan, and have a cake-like quality.

Icebox cookies. These cookies are pre-formed into cylinders, often wrapped in parchment or wax paper, and kept in the refrigerator or freezer. Cross-section slices can then be cut and baked as needed; many cookie doughs can be treated this way.

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES
Adapted from the classic Nestle Toll House recipe
Makes five dozen cookies

INGREDIENTS
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter, softened
¾ cup granulated sugar
¾ cup packed brown sugar
1-½ teaspoons vanilla extract
2 large eggs
1 12-ounce package chocolate chips
DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 375° F. Cream together the butter and sugars in a large bowl, until the mixture has increased in volume and lightened in color. Add the eggs, one at a time, incorporating each fully before adding the next. Add the vanilla.

Combine the flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl. Mix into the butter mixture in three parts, making sure each is fully incorporated before adding the next. Stir in the chocolate chips. Drop rounded tablespoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheets.

Bake for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown; when the edges start to brown, but the cookie is still slightly soft in the center, they’re done. Cool on baking sheets for a moment to firm a bit before removing to wire racks to cool completely.
NOTES
When spooning out cookies onto baking sheets, make sure that all of the scoops are the same size to ensure all the cookies finish at the same time. If possible, use a disher scoop to be sure. Larger and smaller cookies will bake up just fine; adjust the cooking time appropriately.

CHOCOLATE CHIP BISCOTTI
Adapted from How To Cook Everything
Makes fifteen to twenty biscotti

INGREDIENTS
2 Tablespoons unsalted butter, softened, plus more for greasing baking sheets
¼ cup plus 2 Tablespoons granulated sugar
1 large egg
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup plus 2 Tablespoons all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting baking sheets
1 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
¼ cup chocolate chips
DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 375° F. Cream together the butter and sugar in a large bowl, until the mixture has increased in volume and lightened in color. Add the egg and vanilla, stirring until fully incorporated.

Combine the flour, baking powder, and salt in small bowl. Mix into the butter mixture in three parts, making sure each is fully incorporated before adding the next. Stir in the chocolate chips.

Butter a baking sheet and dust with flour; turn it over and tap gently to remove any excess. Shape the dough into a log approximately 3 to 4 inches wide, and about an inch thick. Place onto the baking sheet and bake for about 30 minutes, or until it is golden and beginning to crack.

Remove from the oven, and lower the temperature to 250° F. Allow the loaf to cool until easy to handle, and cut along the diagonal into ½-inch slices with a serrated knife. Place the slices back on the baking sheet and return to the oven to dry, about 15 to 20 minutes, turning once. Cool on a wire rack.
NOTES
Not all biscotti recipes call for butter; here, it helps to tenderize them. Butterless (or other low-fat) biscotti recipes are quite crunchy, and often need to be dunked in coffee to be eaten.

A single cookie is called a biscotto. Biscotti is plural.

* * * * *

¹Sharon confirms that this is often the case in math classes, too.

Cookies? For breakfast?

2008-03-24T16:41:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

The idea of having cookies for breakfast is definitely an appealing one. Unless it's Cookie Crisp, which is creepy for a variety of reasons. Perhaps most for the box cover on Wikipedia that announces "Artificial Chocolate Chip Flavor" as though it were a selling point, though a more current version that attempts to sell this stuff as a good source of whole grains¹ is certainly more sinister. But that's not what I'm after.

I mean biscotti, of course. Those cookies that require an accompanying cup of coffee² - dunking being the thing - are somehow okay, even though a plate of chocolate chip cookies at the breakfast table is just the other side of that line of acceptability. It does make me wonder.

It's hard not to call them cookies. Enough so that I'll be teaching my students to make them in class on Wednesday, during our "Cookies" class. They said they wanted to do more than just chocolate chip cookies, so I'll accommodate.³ The recipe should be up here in a few days.

* * * * *

¹Who's falling for that one, honestly?

²Not my cup of tea, but a glass of milk would certainly do, too. Tea, on the other hand... okay alongside with, but dunking just doesn't seem right.

³What I'm interested to see is how they respond to cookie-making. Most, if not all of the students have made chocolate chip cookies before, and I've no doubt it's the usual Toll House recipe. Which I'm using. But I'm not letting any of them follow the recipe as it's written, because I want them to learn to modify it. So... we'll see.

Is it Spring yet?

2008-03-21T13:22:00.002-04:00

Lewisburg.

My plate has been rather full of late. And everything, it seems, is food-related these days.

It's been about two months' worth of shuffling things about, but we now have a local Slow Food convivium - Slow Food Susquehanna River Valleys. It's a long and clumsy name, I know, but it's the best compromise we could reach with the head office in New York.¹ This, of course, means lots of paperwork to get it all set up, from the Employer Identification Number to the 501(c)3 non-profit status. It's not hard, really. It's just a lot of IRS fine print and more work for our little printer than it's seen since we moved here.

The major upside of this, as far as I'm concerned, is that I get to do neat food-related stuff that I wouldn't get to all by myself. Example: a tour of the Selin's Grove Brewing Company. It's a very small brewery, which means it was pretty much like touring the world's most amazing homebrew setup. Sure, all of the equipment was enormous, but it was all set up inside a renovated garage, and I knew exactly how each step worked. Plus, Steve has to do just about all of it by hand, which sounds rather familiar.

The tour finished up with a tasting of seven of the beers on tap. I can't remember all of them now, but even in those little glasses it was a hell of lot of beer for a Sunday lunch. I'm not saying I'd want to do it very weekend, but it was a grand time.

Then there's the baking class, which I've already mentioned. And the garden planning, which is going full-tilt in preparation for the first seeds to hit soil in just over a week. Or maybe this afternoon, since I forgot to add the herbs into the spreadsheet. Granted, I'm still scratching my head a bit over the last little bits - particularly the lettuce and other greens - but I'm sure it'll work out. I'm sure I'll be giving away and/or composting a wide variety of excess produce, and hopefully taking enough notes to fine-tune it all a bit for next year.

And, coming up soon, I'll be managing our local growers' market. At least that doesn't start until May...

* * * * *

¹This after I had to make an impassioned plea to keep the word "Susquehanna" in our name. Lose that geographic descriptor, and folks 'round here won't claim to have anything else in common.

Baking Class - Biscuits & Scones.

2008-03-20T15:19:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

I love biscuits. Probably because they're like butter made crispy and flaky, but I see no reason to hold that against them. It isn't as though I make them every day. (But if I could...)

BISCUITS & SCONES
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

ABOUT BISCUITS

Biscuits are a lot like quickbreads: rich and buttery, flaky and crumbly quickbreads. This is due, for the most part, to a much higher ratio of fat to starch, and to how that fat is distributed throughout the biscuit. Though the process for making them is both quick and simple, it requires careful attention and good technique. Their proper texture depends on the fat being dispersed properly throughout, with leavening provided by baking powder. When made without eggs, the starch structure can be very delicate; the addition of eggs gives a softer, cakier texture, thanks to the egg’s proteins.

Biscuits are made from a very soft, moist dough, generally with as little handling as possible to minimize the gluten. There are occasional exceptions: some use a small amount of kneading to create layers of dough and fat for a flaky texture; beaten biscuits are worked so thoroughly that they develop and then break the gluten, making the texture delicate again. Most, however, are quick, last-minute preparations that don’t store well. When making biscuits, it’s best to make just enough.

BUTTER, LARD, AND SHORTENING

Biscuits don’t have to be made with butter; most fats that are solid at room temperature will do just fine. Butter, lard and shortening are all commonly used. Butter and lard each have their own unique flavor to bring to the biscuits, while shortening is essentially bland. Butter works well all around, with both sweet and savory variations; lard adds a subtle flavor that’s especially good with savory recipes. You can, of course, always mix different fats together to reach the total amount a recipe calls for.

Oils, which are liquid at room temperature, are no substitute in biscuit recipes. In the biscuit-making process, the fats are not fully incorporated into the flour and other dry ingredients. By remaining solid, fats remain intact in chunks, whereas oils will be absorbed into the flour. It’s the method of combining the ingredients, of cutting instead of mixing, that gives biscuits their special texture.

CUTTING VS. MIXING

Most baking methods require mixing of the ingredients, which produces a homogeneous mass. The ingredients in it, sometimes affected by the method of mixing, determine the texture of the final product. In biscuits, however, the mixing method intentionally leaves sizable particles of fat intact throughout the dough. Referred to as “cutting in” the fat, this intersperses fats between layers of dough. When melted by the heat of the oven, it creates small pockets that fill with evaporating liquid and the carbon dioxide of baking powder, giving lift to the biscuit and creating an irregularly flaky structure. When the fat is completely mixed into the flour, there is no opportunity for lift, leaving a dense biscuit.

There are several different methods for cutting in the fat, all of which attempt to break up the fat into smaller pieces, leaving some whole and incorporating some of the rest into the dry ingredients. Pastry blenders, food processors, a pair of knives or even rubbing with the fingertips; all of these can work. The only essential part is that the fat never melt. Chill it ahead of time and work quickly.

The size of the remaining fat particles will determine the final texture of the biscuit, and is usually described by the size of the largest remaining pieces. When they resemble peas, the biscuits will have a flakier, more layered structure; when they resemble breadcrumbs, the texture will be fluffier. Pieces that are too large will leave gaping holes inside that can then cause the biscuits to collapse or tip sideways.

After the fat has been worked into the flour, the liquid is added, and worked in just enough to moisten the dry ingredients. The fat is still susceptible to overworking at this point, so a light hand and cold ingredients will help keep the biscuits from becoming dense. If the kitchen is warm, or the process is taking too long, slide everything into the refrigerator to cool off for a time.

PIE CRUSTS, PUFF PASTRY, CROISSANTS

Pie crust is essentially a variation on biscuits. Made without leavening and a bare minimum of liquid – unlike biscuits, a pie crust should be flaky but not risen and airy – the process is nearly identical. Done properly, a skill that takes a few attempts to get under control, a homemade pie crust is worlds apart from the dull, flavorless, mealy-textured variety from the supermarket freezer section.

Puff pastry, on the other hand, is quite distinct. Though light, buttery, and flaky, it derives its texture and rise from very careful and finicky preparation. To start, a dough is made with flour and ice water, and worked as little as possible to prevent gluten from developing. Rolled out into a square, it is topped with a large amount of softened but still solid butter – about half the dough’s weight – and repeatedly folded over onto itself and rolled out. Frequently returning the dough to the refrigerator and varying the direction of the rolling keeps the butter solid and allows the developing gluten to relax. After six “turns,” each of which folds the dough into thirds, the puff pastry has become a sandwich of extremely thin layers of dough and butter: 729 layers of dough separated by 728 layers of solid butter.

Rolled out to the usual thickness of about one quarter inch, each layer of the puff pastry is around one thousandth of an inch thick, roughly the thickness of an individual starch granule. When baked, the butter melts and its water content evaporates, puffing up the dough into a remarkably airy, delicate texture. The volume can increase by four or more times, depending on the heat of the oven. Shortening, with its much lower water content, can also be used, and produces a crisper, less flavorful puff pastry.

Croissants and Danish pastries are made in much the same way as puff pastry, except that they use a yeast-risen dough. The basic dough is made with flour, yeast and milk, and allowed to rise for one or more hours before deflating and rolling out with butter like puff pastry. The dough is more delicate than that for puff pastry, and so can be more difficult to work with, but is still folded and rolled out to produce hundreds of layers of dough and butter. Danish pastry doughs are often made with even more butter and rolled out only three times, rather than six, producing thicker layers.
BASIC ROLLED BISCUITS
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking
Makes about twenty two-inch biscuits

INGREDIENTS
2 cups all-purpose flour
2-½ teaspoons baking powder
½ to ¾ teaspoon salt
6 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces
¾ cup milk, cold
DIRECTIONS
If baking, preheat the oven to 450° F. Whisk together the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Drop in the butter and cut into the flour, tossing as you work. When the largest pieces resemble peas, the biscuits will have a flaky, layered texture; when they resemble coarse breadcrumbs, the texture will be fluffier. Stop when you reach the desired coarseness, and do not let the butter melt or form a paste with the flour. Refrigerate if necessary.

Add in the milk and mix with a rubber spatula, wooden spoon or fork just until most of the dry ingredients are moistened. With a lightly floured hand, bring the dough into a ball and knead gently against the sides of the bowl 5 to 10 times, pressing in any loose bits until they adhere.

Turn out onto a lightly floured board and roll or pat out into a square about ½ inch thick. (Roll to ¼ to 3/8 inch thick if cooking on a griddle.) Using a sharp knife or biscuit cutter, cut into the desired shape. Squares produce virtually no scraps. The scraps from cutting rounds may be re-rolled to cut a second batch, but these will not be as tender as the first-cut biscuits.

To bake, place biscuits on a baking sheet. Keep them at least one inch apart for separate biscuits with crusty sides; set them close together for biscuits that will join and remain soft on the sides. Bake until golden brown on the top, about 10 to 12 minutes. For browner tops, brush with milk or melted butter before baking.

To cook on a griddle, preheat the griddle (or a frying pan) over medium-high heat. Cook until brown on the first side, 3 to 4 minutes, then flip and cook until the other side is brown and the middle cooked through.
NOTES
Always serve biscuits as soon as possible. They do not keep well. If you have any leftover the next day, split them in half with a fork and warm in a toaster oven. Storing them any longer, especially in a sealed container, generally results in mold growth by the second day.

Like quickbreads, biscuits take well to additional ingredients. As a general rule, keep any extras to 6 Tablespoons or less. Cheese is an exception: add up to ½ cup of hard Parmesan-style cheeses; add up to ¾ cup of semi-hard Cheddar-style cheeses. When adding cheese, you may wish to reduce the salt and lower the baking temperature to 425° F.

For whole-wheat biscuits, replace ½ cup of the flour with whole-wheat flour.

For buttermilk biscuits, replace the milk with buttermilk, reduce the baking powder to 2 teaspoons, and add ½ teaspoon of baking soda.

CRANBERRY SCONES
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking
Makes eight scones

INGREDIENTS
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup sugar, plus more for dusting
1 Tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
6 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces
½ cup dried, sweetened cranberries (or raisins)
1 large egg
½ cup plus 1 Tablespoon heavy cream, plus more for brushing tops
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 425° F. Whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Drop in the butter and cut into the flour, tossing as you work, until the largest pieces resemble peas. Do not let the butter melt or form a paste with the flour. Refrigerate if necessary.

Stir in the cranberries. Whisk the egg, cream and zest together in a small bowl, and add to the dry ingredients all at once. Mix with a rubber spatula, wooden spoon or fork just until most of the dry ingredients are moistened. With a lightly floured hand, bring the dough into a ball and knead gently against the sides of the bowl 5 to 10 times, pressing in any loose bits until they adhere.

Turn out onto a lightly floured board and pat out into an 8-inch round of even thickness. Using a sharp knife, cut into eight wedges. Place on a baking sheet, at least ½ inch apart, and brush the tops with a light layer of cream. If desired, sprinkle with a little additional sugar.

Bake until the tops are golden brown, 12 to 15 minutes. Cool on a rack or serve warm.
NOTES
For flakier scones, omit the egg and increase the cream by ¼ cup. Proceed with the recipe as above.

For a simplified version, omit the butter and egg, and increase the cream to 1-¼ cups. Proceed with the recipe above.

Hook's 12-year.

2008-03-12T08:41:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

Hook's 12-year cheddar - some of Wisconsin's finest - gets a nod in today's Los Angeles Times. After all, it really is some spectacular cheese.

Baking Class - Quickbreads.

2008-03-12T08:36:00.000-04:00

Lewisburg.

The quickbreads class was as popular as one might expect. Students made their own recipes from start to finish - without all that waiting around for yeast - and went home with plates of buttermilk cornbread and applesauce muffins. Plus, there's this little spark in their eyes whenever they get something loaded with sugar... it'll be interesting to see the reaction to a real sponge cake in the final class.

Of course, there were a few little mix-ups, now that the students were doing all the work. Recipe-reading skills could use some honing, for example. But that came with some good questions, too - including ones about what I'll be teaching next semester. Overall, a good sign.

QUICKBREADS
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

ABOUT QUICKBREADS

Unlike yeasted breads, quickbreads don’t rely on yeast to produce leavening power or gluten to harness it. And rather than being made from doughs, which have enough character to be picked up and shaped, quickbreads are made from batters. Quickbread batters are typically thicker than those used for pancakes; they’re easier to spoon than to pour. And, since they’re stiffer and hold their shape better, they can be made into various shapes, usually loaves or muffins.

Quickbreads get their rising power from chemical leavening agents, and don’t need to wait on the activity of a colony of yeast before baking. Their moist, dense, somewhat coarse texture is due to, in most recipes, moderate amounts of sugar, fat and egg. Since the process for making quickbreads isn’t much more complicated than stirring together the various ingredients, these types of recipes are easy to modify, generally forgiving of mistakes, and can be made in larger or smaller batches simply by scaling ingredient amounts.

Just about any quickbread loaf recipe can be baked as muffins, and vice versa. Though times may vary depending on oven temperature and the actual quantity of batter used, loaf quickbreads usually take 50 minutes to an hour in a 350° F oven. Muffins, in a 400° F oven, take about 15 to 18 minutes for standard-sized, 10 to 12 minutes for miniature, and 22 to 25 minutes for jumbo. Lower oven temperatures are more forgiving for overcooking, but will not crisp up the edges as much.

CHEMICAL LEAVENING

In lieu of yeast, various chemical compounds provide the lift for quickbreads. There are two general types: baking soda and baking powder. Some recipes may call for one or the other; many call for a certain amount of both. They aren’t interchangeable, so be careful.

Baking soda is also known as sodium bicarbonate, and works by reacting with acids in the batter to produce carbon dioxide. Add some vinegar to a spoonful of baking soda in a glass and watch it foam. It reacts immediately, which means that recipes that call for it alone must be baked as soon as they are mixed. As the batter sits, the leavening bubbles will escape, leaving you with a particularly rock-solid muffin. Common acids used to get this reaction include buttermilk, yogurt, molasses, fruit juices, and vinegar. If a recipe calls for buttermilk and you have none, you can make clabbered milk by mixing about two teaspoons of vinegar with a cup of milk and resting it for a few minutes. The taste isn’t the same, but the effect in the recipe will be.

Baking powder is a mixture of sodium bicarbonate and one or more dried, crystalline acids, with some dry starch to prevent the two from prematurely reacting. When dissolved in liquid, the acid-base reaction takes place, producing the carbon dioxide gas needed for leavening. Most available baking powders are referred to as “double-acting,” meaning that not all of the acids present will react as soon as a batter is mixed. Some of the reactions won’t occur until the heat of baking initiates them, thus giving a second rise while in the oven. Recipes that call for both baking soda and baking powder often rely on the baking soda as a means to neutralize the acidity of other ingredients in the batter. The baking powder, in these cases, is intended to provide much of the lift.

Due to humidity in the air, the ingredients in baking powder will slowly react and lose their leavening power over time; it’s best to replace your supply once a year, regardless of how much is left in the container. You have a choice when purchasing baking powder, between those containing aluminum – in the form of sodium aluminum sulfate – and those without. There are concerns that even small amounts of aluminum intake can have negative health effects, though the science so far is inconclusive. “Aluminum-free” baking powders also seem to be free of the “metallic” and bitter taste baking powder can sometimes lend to baked goods. The choice is up to you.

Occasionally, you may find a recipe that calls for “self-rising” flour, particularly in British cookbooks. This type of flour contains approximately 1-½ teaspoons of baking powder per cup. Avoid using it. You can simply adjust the recipe to work with all-purpose flour and baking powder, and thus avoid having a too-specific ingredient taking up shelf space.

GLUTEN-FREE TEXTURE

The distinctive texture of quickbreads and muffins – dense and moist, with a coarse crumb that breaks apart into irregular chunks – is due to the ingredients and mixing method. Or, rather, the near lack of mixing. As in breads, starch is still a key structural player, sometimes buttressed by egg proteins, but in this case it isn’t the formation of gluten that’s desired. In quickbreads, the ingredients are brought together quickly, often with the dry ingredients mixed together in one bowl, and the wet ingredients in another. (Sugar, since it dissolves so easily into liquids, is often considered a “wet” ingredient.) Recipes stress avoiding “overmixing,” which can be difficult to judge without experience. Generally, lumps in the batter will bake out, as long as there are no large clumps of flour remaining unmixed.

Overmixing is a problem because it begins to develop gluten. Although the various fats, proteins and sugars in the other ingredients do a fair job of minimizing that, it can still happen. The texture then changes to something less tender, with a finer crumb – except where there are large pockets of air space. Where gluten starts to develop, it traps the leavening gases inside, producing large tunnel-like cavities. If you see those as you slice through a muffin, make a note to stop mixing a little sooner the next time.

The goal is to thoroughly mix the dry ingredients and the wet ingredients while in separate containers, so that very little mixing is required when the two are combined. Another reason to be thorough in the pre-mixing is to ensure there are no clumps of leavening agents left in the dough. These will taste decidedly bitter if anyone bites into one, and have a tendency to produce funny colors in the presence of certain ingredients: blueberries, carrots and sunflower seeds turn green; walnuts turn blue. This can also happen if there’s too much baking soda in the batter, regardless of how well it’s mixed in.

THE ROLE OF FATS AND OILS

Fats function as tenderizers in baked goods, and also help to maintain a moist texture; although they don’t hold on to water in the finished product, the fats themselves give that sensation. Fats aren’t as effective in slowing staling as they are in other baked goods, however. Because they’re minimally mixed, the fat remains unevenly distributed, and doesn’t protect much of the starch from losing its moisture.

Temperature can also be a concern. As with most baked goods, quickbreads are usually best kept at room temperature, not in the refrigerator. This is a particular issue with those that use butter; because it solidifies at a higher temperature than vegetable oils, refrigerated butter-based goods can develop a distinctly unpleasant texture. Long-term storage in the freezer is a different case, however. Wrapped so that they’re airtight, quickbreads can be frozen, then reheated in a 350° F oven until hot, without any unpleasant changes.

It is possible to make quickbreads with less fat, yet keep that same sense of moistness. Low-fat quickbreads will not keep as long as the regular sorts, and so should be eaten within a day or so. Some recipes simply reduce the butter or oil and replace it with some extra milk or orange juice; these are more prone to overmixing than usual, and will stale quickly. Others, such as the muffin recipe below, use applesauce to provide moisture in place of some dairy and fat. They are a little more forgiving, and tend to resist staling almost as well as other muffin recipes.

BUTTERMILK CORNBREAD
Makes one 9-inch round loaf

INGREDIENTS
1 cup cornmeal
1 cup flour
½ Tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1-¼ cups buttermilk
2 eggs
4 Tablespoons butter (½ stick)
DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 425° F, with a 9-inch cast iron skillet in the oven. In a large bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan. Beat the eggs into the buttermilk into well combined, and mix in the melted butter. Stir into the dry ingredients until just combined, being sure to break up any clumps of flour. Avoid overmixing; a few lumps aren’t a problem.

Pour the batter into the hot skillet, and return to the oven. Bake for twenty minutes, or until the top has turned golden brown. Allow to cool for a moment in the pan, then transfer to a cooling rack.
NOTES
Any oven-safe pan will work in lieu of cast iron, including muffin tins, though the bottom crust may not form quite as nicely. Adjust the cooking time as needed for different shapes.

Like most quickbreads, cornbread takes well to additional ingredients. Include up to ½ cup of grated cheese, fresh corn kernels, diced onion and chilli peppers, or anything else that seems good.

APPLESAUCE MUFFINS
Adapted from 7th grade home economics class, Lionville Junior High
Makes about one dozen

INGREDIENTS
1 cup sugar
½ cup butter (1 stick), softened
1-½ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 cup smooth applesauce
½ cup cinnamon chips (optional)
DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 350° F. Grease a 12-cup muffin tin or line with paper cups. In a bowl, mix together the dry ingredients: flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger and salt.

In a large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until light-colored. Mix in the eggs, one at a time, followed by the applesauce. Add in the dry ingredients in three parts, stirring to combine each completely before adding the next. If using, gently fold in the cinnamon chips.

Spoon the batter into the muffin cups; each should be about 2/3 full. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove to a rack to cool.
NOTES
As these muffins are relatively low-fat, they will go stale more quickly than standard muffins. Eat them as close to freshly baked as possible.

Baking Class - Bagels & Pretzels.

2008-02-28T14:51:00.001-05:00

Lewisburg.

Bagels. There's nothing that can quite match a crispy, chewy, still-warm-from-the-oven homemade bagel. Especially for a group of anxious baking students whose most pressing question is: "How soon can we eat them?"

The answer, of course, is as soon as you can pick them up without searing your fingers, though some of them decided not to wait that long. We made cinnamon raisin, onion, and poppyseed bagels last night, which were an understandable hit. Though I have to admit that I was taken aback by the one who admitted she'd never had a poppyseed bagel before.

BAGELS & PRETZELS
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

ABOUT BAGELS, PRETZELS, AND OTHER PARBOILED BREADS

Bagels and soft pretzels differ from more basic breads in one important aspect of the process: before baking, they are briefly boiled. It isn’t enough to cook them entirely, but works to develop that ideal shiny, chewy crust. Traditional bagels are also often made with less water than traditional bread doughs and given a long rise, making for a stiff dough that produces a dense interior. Modern mass-produced bagels – from the late 20th century on – usually use a short rising time followed by a steaming and baking process that produces a light, soft ring of bread that lacks the traditional crust and texture.

One essential for chewy bagels is a high-protein bread flour. The traditional texture needs lots of gluten, and thus good flour and effective kneading are necessary. It’s really a matter of taste, however, so knowing how it works lets you make bagels just the way you like them. Both bagel and pretzel recipes tend to include a small amount of sweetener, such as brown sugar, molasses, or malt syrup, which has a negligible effect on texture and sweetness, but lends a hint of extra flavor.

BREAD FLAVORINGS

The options for flavoring breads are pretty much limitless. Since white flour and water leave a fairly blank canvas on which to experiment, the simplest path to take is to start adding other flavors that you like and that go together. A few general suggestions:
Liquids. You can replace part or all of the water in any bread recipe with just about any other liquid you like, as long as you keep in mind the effects it may have on the texture. Most liquids will have a tenderizing effect, due to the proteins, sugars and acids in them, but do a wonderful job of making any bread more flavorful. Milk, beer, juices and even a small addition of olive oil – as in focaccia or ciabatta – will work in most cases.

Herbs and spices. Small particles, such as ground spices, will have little to no effect on the texture of a bread, but can add a great deal of flavor. Even larger particles, such as caraway seeds and rosemary needles, won’t have a significant effect, and can be added without worry; by the time they would begin to have an effect on the bread, the flavor would be overwhelming. Different herbs and spices have different intensities, so start small. For strongly-flavored herbs and spices, start with a limit of a teaspoon per 3 cups of flour; for those that are milder, you can try up to a tablespoon for starters. Until you have a few batches under your belt, use a light touch. Too much or too many flavors in one loaf can make you feel like you’re eating potpourri.

Chunks. All sorts of things can be incorporated into a dough for extra flavor, and large pieces are no exception. They will have the effect of making the loaf denser. They interfere with the gluten network by simply getting in the way, and enough chunks can act as dead weight counteracting the expanding gases in the loaf. Just about anything you might eat with bread can go inside it, as long as the pieces aren’t too large – less than ½ inch – and the total amount doesn’t exceed a cup per 3 cups of flour. Some good examples might be: a combination of raisins and chopped walnuts; chopped onions softened in butter; or a mix of grated cheeses.
You can add anything that’s small, like herbs, directly to the flour before adding the liquid to distribute evenly. Larger chunks should wait until the dough has been kneaded, because they can make that process more difficult; add them in at the end of kneading, taking a minute to ensure they’re spread throughout the dough. Flavoring elements can also be added at any point when the dough is being worked prior to baking, or even rolled into a spiral layer inside the loaf just before it goes in the oven.

THE BOILING STAGE

After the bagels or pretzels have been shaped and rested, they’re boiled briefly on both sides before baking. Use a large pot, bringing the water to a vigorous boil, and make sure that you don’t add too many bagels at once. They shouldn’t touch. Pretzels, due to their shape, take up the most space, and require several batches. After boiling, drain on a rack before salting or topping, then bake.

Boiling gelates the starches on the surface and causes the interior to puff up. After draining and topping, they bake in a moderately hot oven to brown the exterior by the time the interior is finished baking. In the oven, the starches on the surface form a thick crust; it limits the bagel or pretzel from expanding much further, keeping the interior dense and chewy. Pretzels are sometimes boiled in water with baking soda added; this helps create a dark brown exterior.
ONION BAGELS
Adapted from How to Cook Everything
Makes eight to twelve bagels

INGREDIENTS
3-½ cups bread flour, plus more as needed
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon instant yeast
2 Tablespoons brown sugar, molasses, malt syrup, or maple syrup
1-¼ cups water, room temperature, plus more as needed
½ cup minced onion, plus another teaspoon for topping
1 Tablespoon butter or oil
DIRECTIONS
Saute the ½ cup onion in butter or oil over medium heat until softened, about ten minutes. Set aside to cool. Meanwhile, thoroughly mix together the flour, salt and yeast in a large bowl. In another bowl, mix together the water and sugar until completely dissolved.

Mix together the flour mixture and the water with a wooden spoon until combined. Turn out onto a lightly floured board and knead until smooth and elastic. The dough should remain just slightly tacky, but not wet. Add the cooked onion and knead for another minute to distribute it evenly. Transfer to a bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and let rise until doubled, about 2 hours.

Turn back out onto a lightly floured surface and punch down gently. Cover and rest for 10 minutes. Cut into eight to twelve equal-sized pieces – whether you want large or small bagels – and roll each into a ball. Poke a hole through the center and stretch into a bagel shape. Cover and let rise for another 30 minutes.

Bring a large pot of water to boil, and preheat the oven to 400° F. Without crowding, drop the bagels into the water one at a time. Boil for one minute on each side, then remove to a rack to drain. Repeat with as many batches as necessary.

Lay the bagels on a greased or non-stick baking sheet. Brush or spray the bagels with a little water and top with the remaining teaspoon of minced onion. Spray the inside of the oven with water to create steam and slide the baking sheet inside. Bake 5 minutes, then spray the oven again. Bake another 18 to 20 minutes, or until the bagels are nicely browned.
NOTES
Omit the onion for plain bagels; replace with ½ cup raisins and ½ teaspoon of cinnamon for cinnamon-raisin bagels.

For poppy seed, sesame seed, or other sorts of toppings, just brush or spray the tops with water and sprinkle on the desired amount before baking.

SOFT PRETZELS
Makes eight to twelve pretzels

INGREDIENTS
4 cups bread or all-purpose flour
1 Tablespoon brown sugar
1 Tablespoon kosher salt, plus more for topping
1 teaspoon instant yeast
1 ½ cups water
DIRECTIONS
Mix together the flour, brown sugar, salt and yeast in a large bowl. Add in the water, stirring to make a smooth dough. Turn out onto a floured board and knead until the dough is smooth and elastic. Transfer to a bowl, cover, and let rise for about one hour.

Divide the dough into twelve equal pieces. Roll each out into a long cylinder, then twist into a pretzel shape. Keep the dough covered when not working it to prevent it from drying out. Set each shaped pretzel on a baking sheet dusted with cornmeal, cover, and allow to rise another half hour.

Preheat the oven to 425° F. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Being careful not to crowd them, add the pretzels to the water and boil for one minute on each side. This may take four or more batches, depending on the size of your pot and your pretzels. Transfer the boiled pretzels to a rack to drain.

Arrange the pretzels on a baking sheet dusted with cornmeal. Spray or brush lightly with a little water and sprinkle with kosher or coarse salt. Bake for approximately 20 to 25 minutes, until golden brown. Cool on a rack.

Epi.

2008-02-21T17:04:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

Also baking-related: I'm almost to the point where I think I can say, with confidence, that I can make an acceptable epi¹:

My technique needs some tweaking, and a home oven - i.e., not a steam-injected professional model - might not produce the perfect crust, but I'd be willing to serve this to dinner guests. It certainly tastes good, and it's not the sort of thing readily available around here.

Incidentally, the texture and crust here make me think I've just about figured out ciabatta, too. By accident.

* * * * *

¹Classic french harvest loaf that's shaped to look like an ear of wheat. It's essentially a cross between a baguette and dinner rolls.

Baking Class - Sweet Breads.

2008-02-21T17:03:00.001-05:00

Lewisburg.

And, for those who feel like making cinnamon rolls at home, here's the information from the second baking class. It was a blast watching the students make their own cinnamon rolls, but nothing beat the moment where they decided that these didn't need any icing. They'd brought some, just in case - and left it behind when they took their piles of goodies home.

SWEET BREADS
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

ABOUT SWEET BREADS

Sweet breads are, as the name implies, a group of breads with a distinctly sweet flavor from a significant amount of added sugar, often 10% or more the weight of the flour in the recipe. The addition of sugar, as well as other common ingredients such as milk, butter, and eggs, has a definite impact on the structure and other qualities of baked goods. Sweet breads are still yeasted breads, and behave in much the same way, but with differences worth examining.

SUGAR

Sugar does more to baked goods than simply make them sweet. Though some non-sweet bread recipes call for a small amount of sugar that has little effect other than flavor, the amounts that occur in typical yeasted sweet breads are enough to make a significant difference in several ways. Sugar inhibits gluten formation by diluting the flour’s proteins. Combined with sugar’s tendency to absorb moisture, and to hang onto it, this means that sweet breads are more tender and slower to go stale than other breads.

High proportions of sugar also limit the activity of the yeast in the dough. Sugar’s affinity for moisture dehydrates the yeast cells, and so sweet bread recipes often call for larger quantities of yeast, longer rising times, or both. The sugar also makes these breads more prone to browning early in baking, and so many recipes use lower baking temperatures to prevent the outside browning before the interior is set.

There are several varieties of sugar common in baking:
Granulated or white sugar. Common table sugar, it’s almost pure sucrose. It has very little flavor, until it begins to caramelize, which makes it an ideal choice for times when you want other flavors to shine.

Superfine or castor sugar. This is the same as granulated sugar, except that it’s been ground finer, making it easier to dissolve in certain special situations. It is not, however, as fine as...

Powdered or confectioners’ sugar. This is sucrose that has been ground into dust; labeling such as X, 6X or 10X refers to increasingly fine gradations. To prevent these very finely ground crystals from absorbing moisture and fusing solid in the package, they’re mixed with cornstarch. For this reason, powdered sugar is not interchangeable with granulated sugar in recipes; the effects of the cornstarch are not always desirable when not specifically called for.

Brown sugar. Made by mixing white sugar with molasses, brown sugar is available in light brown and dark brown. The dark, with more molasses, has a stronger flavor. Brown sugar tends to clump as it dries because the molasses acts almost like glue; place anything moist – an apple slice, a piece of bread, a wet cotton ball - in the container to soften it.

Turbinado, demerara and other “raw” sugars. These sugars, in varying shades of brown and degrees of fineness, are forms of unrefined sugar. The impurities that make up molasses have not been removed, but are still part of the crystals; they’re inside, not outside, and so less prone to clumping. Less processing also means that they tend to have a more complex flavor than regular brown sugar.

Honey. Made by bees, honey is a saturated sugar solution containing more than 20 different sugars, various amino acids, enzymes and other compounds. It is sweeter than table sugar by 20% or more, depending on the variety, and its approximate 17% moisture content must be taken into account when baking.

Maple syrup. Like honey, using maple syrup as a sugar replacement requires adjustments to the quantity of liquid in the recipe; maple syrup is approximately 34% water. Supermarket syrups rarely contain even a trace of true maple syrup, but are rather made from corn syrup with artificial colorings and flavorings. They are not interchangeable with maple syrup in recipes.

MILK

Like sugar, milk has more effect in baked goods than just adding flavor. Since it contains a variety of proteins and, depending on the type of milk, often some amount of fat, exchanging it for water will make a difference. The proteins and fats in milk work to weaken the gluten network in breads by interfering with the gluten molecules. This produces a more tender crumb, and the presence of fats can slow the staling process.

BUTTER

Butter is almost all fat, but not so much that it is always interchangeable with pure oils or fats in recipes. Depending on the type of butter, it’s usually about 80% fat, 16% water, with the rest being proteins, lactose, and some other trace components. European-style butters are often closer to 85% fat, making them useful for certain tasks, not to mention more flavorful. Cultured cream butter has been slightly soured, producing a more full-flavored butter that is otherwise interchangeable.

Most baking recipes call for unsalted butter; salted butter contains between 1 and 2% added salt as a means to prevent microbial growth and to keep the butter from turning rancid. This works out to around 1 to 2 teaspoons of salt per pound of butter. It’s not enough to make a significant difference where small amounts of butter are called for, but it is enough to make puff pastry too salty. If you don’t have any unsalted butter, reduce the amount of salt in the recipe by about a teaspoon per cup of butter.

In bread recipes, butter works like other fats, as a tenderizer; its salt content, in most cases, makes little difference to the final product. Butter does, however, bring a lot of flavor to baked goods, even in relatively small quantities.

EGGS

Although eggs can do some pretty phenomenal things in baking, their main use in bread baking is as a tenderizer. They contain a large proportion of proteins and fats, both of which interfere with gluten formation, resulting in a more tender texture. They also lend flavor and a distinct richness to many breads, which other ingredients can’t quite replicate.
CINNAMON ROLLS
Adapted from How to Cook Everything
Makes one dozen

INGREDIENTS
2-½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed
1-½ teaspoons instant yeast
½ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup sugar
2 Tablespoons butter, melted, room temperature, plus more as needed
1 large egg, lightly beaten
½ cup milk, plus more as needed, room temperature
½ cup brown sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
Zest of an orange (optional)
DIRECTIONS
Combine the flour, yeast, salt and (white) sugar in a large bowl and mix thoroughly to combine. Add the melted butter and egg and stir until combined, then as much of the milk as required to form a dough. Turn out onto a lightly floured board and knead until the dough is smooth and elastic, 5 to 10 minutes. Smooth the dough into a ball.

Butter a bowl and place the dough in it. Cover and let rise until doubled, 2 to 3 hours. Turn back out onto a lightly floured board and gently roll into a rectangle, approximately 3/8-inch thick. Brush liberally with melted butter, then cover with an even layer of brown sugar, cinnamon and orange zest. Roll it up, slice into twelve pieces, and place in a buttered 12-compartment muffin tin. Cover and allow to rise another hour.

Preheat the oven to 400° F. Brush the tops of the rolls lightly with a little melted butter and bake until well browned, 20 to 30 minutes. Allow to cool for several minutes in the pans, then transfer to a rack to cool.
NOTES
These are best served warm. If they can’t be served right away, place them in a foil-covered baking dish and reheat them in a low oven until just warmed through.

Baking Class - Yeast Breads.

2008-02-14T12:09:00.000-05:00

Lewisburg.

Last night I taught my first baking class. Overall, I think it went well. We didn't make too much of a mess; the loaves we baked in class came out well - enough that the students were amazed such simple bread could be so good; and all six students were planning to return today to bake the loaves they'd kneaded last night.

And I have to admit that I was deeply amused as I watched the students attempt kneading for the first time. It's been so long since I learned that I can't remember it, though I do recall it taking years of practice until I stopped using too much flour. There's some learned knack there, I guess.

But, for those who're interested, here's the text of last night's handout:

YEAST BREADS
Baking 101 – Spring 2008

THE BREAD-MAKING PROCESS

Making bread is perhaps the simplest and most forgiving baking process. With a little time and effort, even novice bakers can turn out loaves of homemade breads superior to any you might find in the grocery store. The process is simple and straightforward, often quite forgiving of mistakes and easily adaptable to experimentation. There are as many methods out there as there are breads – and that’s no small number – but as follows is the general method for most western-style yeast breads:

MIXING combines the dry and wet ingredients – the basic four being flour, water, yeast and salt – into a dough. KNEADING works the dough, stretching and organizing the proteins in the wheat flour to develop the gluten network, while also aerating the dough with many tiny bubbles. RISING allows the yeast in the dough to grow and reproduce, producing the carbon dioxide that allows the loaf to rise and various other products of fermentation that change the flavor and texture of the dough. PUNCHING DOWN gently redistributes the yeast cells, their food supply, and the gas bubbles in the dough for the second rise. PROOFING, or the second rise, allows the dough to rise once more in the shape for baking. BAKING causes the loaf to rise dramatically as the water and alcohol in the loaf expand the gas pockets; the starch structure in the loaf absorbs water and gelates; and the bread’s structure sets, starting at the crust and working inward to the center of the loaf. COOLING allows the excess moisture in the loaf to escape while the loaf firms up, making it easier to slice.

FLOUR

There are many different types of flour to choose from when baking. Though breads can be made from almost any grain, only wheat and its closely related cousins are capable of producing gluten, the protein structure that allows a loaf to rise. Some typical flours include:
All-purpose flour. Like most flours, it is often made from a mixture of different wheats blended to give consistency, particularly in protein content. The bran and germ of the wheat kernel have been removed, leaving mostly starch, about 11-12% protein, and a very small amount of fats, enzymes, and other components. For many types of baking, all-purpose flour does a good, though not always spectacular, job.

Bread flour. A high-protein version of all-purpose flour, bread flour contains 12-13% protein, with most of that representing strong gluten proteins. The higher proportion of protein makes for the lighter, chewier loaves of bread. Bread flour can also absorb more water than other flours, which can affect the workability of the dough.

Pastry flour. For baked goods that require a soft, tender texture, low-protein (8-9%) pastry flour contains weak gluten proteins and runs less risk of producing a tough dough or batter.

Whole wheat flour. With much of the germ and bran still in the flour, whole wheat flour has much more flavor than white flours; however, the fats present will turn rancid in time, making it less shelf stable. Though it has a high proportion of protein, not all of that is gluten, and the germ and bran particles tend to interfere with gluten formation, resulting in denser loaves.

Specialty flours. Certain flours work best at specific tasks, such as: durum semolina flour is typically used for pasta making; spelt flour, which contains some different gluten proteins than traditional wheat, is an alternative for some people with wheat intolerance; cake flour, which is heavily treated with chlorine dioxide or chlorine gas, has certain unique characteristics beneficial in cake making; some, like Type 55 and Italian 00, are traditional European blends for flavor and specific characteristics.
These don’t include flours made from other grains, such as barley and rye, or even from starchy vegetables, such as the potato. Each of these different flours has its own unique flavors and characteristics in baking, though they are all alike in that they cannot provide the same ability to rise as wheat flours. A great variety of leavened breads use other grains for a portion of the flour to change the texture and to add flavor.

Note that white flours may be bleached or unbleached. Bleaching merely eliminates the natural pale yellow color of wheat flour that disappears with age. It has no beneficial effect on the quality of the flour.

YEAST

Yeasts are unicellular fungi whose metabolism produces several beneficial by-products. In an unsweetened dough, the yeasts feed on the single- and double-unit sugars in the flour, creating carbon dioxide, alcohol, and a range of various enzymes and other chemicals that develop the distinctly yeasty flavor of leavened bread and improve the strength of the gluten network. A small amount of table sugar in the dough will increase yeast activity, but a large amount will decrease it, as will salt. Temperature also greatly affects the yeast metabolism. They’ll be most active at about 95° F, but develop better flavor and texture while growing more slowly at lower temperatures. Most yeast-risen doughs work best at cool room temperatures, usually between 60° F and 70° F, though an extended stay in the refrigerator can produce an especially delicious bread. Similar results can be achieved by using very small amounts of yeast, and allowing the bread to rise for an extended period of time at room temperature.

There are several different types of yeast available for bread baking. Some are preferable for specific tasks, and they are not necessarily interchangeable in all recipes. The most common forms are:
Instant yeast. This is the most useful type of yeast for the home baker, and is comprised of dried, dormant yeast cells packed into small rod-like shapes. In this form, they take up water readily, and can be mixed directly with the dry ingredients. It also tends to be more vigorous than other types of dried yeast, and special strains are available for sweet doughs and other yeast-unfriendly environments.

Active dry yeast. In the grocery store, this yeast is often found in three-packs of single-use measures. The dry yeast is dormant, but in larger granules than instant yeast, requiring a preliminary soaking in warm water before mixing with other ingredients. Since fewer of the yeast cells in any container are viable, as compared to instant, a larger quantity is needed to achieve the same speed and effect.

Cake or compressed yeast. Still moist and alive, this is a block of highly active, and highly perishable, yeast. It requires refrigeration, and must be used quickly, often within a week or two of purchase.

Sourdough starter. Unlike the main types of baker’s yeasts, a sourdough starter is a living colony composed of wild yeasts and various strains of bacteria. The effects of the various microorganisms produce a highly flavorful loaf, but slow the bread’s rising and weaken the gluten network. Maintaining a sourdough starter requires regular “feedings” to keep the microorganisms thriving, but it produces breads impossible to replicate with regular yeast.
GLUTEN

Gluten is what gives bread its structure. Essentially long chains of certain wheat proteins, gluten molecules provide the elasticity of bread dough that enables it to capture the carbon dioxide gas created by yeast and expand without falling apart. The chewy crumb of a good European-style loaf is due to gluten, as opposed to the soft, tender texture of a sponge cake. Kneading bread dough helps develop the gluten by stretching and aligning the gluten molecules into a strong network, and the amount of water present will affect how well that network forms. Too little makes for a crumbly texture, while a lot makes for a softer bread. A few ingredients help improve the strength of the gluten network, such as high-protein flour and salt. Others, such as sugar (in large quantities), fats and oils, and acidic ingredients, weaken the gluten to produce softer, more delicate breads.

SHAPES AND OTHER VARIATIONS

Bread can be made into almost any shape imaginable. It can be baked in a pan to control its shape – as can be done for sandwich loaves, or cloverleaf rolls in a muffin pan, or traditional French breads in cloches – or shaped into a relatively free form to cook on a baking stone or a sheet pan. Some breads, such as the traditional Boston brown bread, are traditionally steamed to achieve the proper rise and texture. The size, the shape, and even the desired type of crust on a particular loaf can determine the best way to cook it. As a general rule, smaller breads can cook faster, and at higher temperatures.

Temperature is just one consideration in bread baking. In a standard metal oven, a temperature of 350° F will generally cook a loaf in 45 to 60 minutes, though the crust may remain relatively light-colored. Higher temperatures will enable the bread to cook slightly faster, and brown the crust more thoroughly, but with the risk of scorching the exterior before the interior finishes baking. Many recipes recommend starting breads in a hot oven, around 450° F, for ten to fifteen minutes, then lowering the temperature to finish out the cooking, a process which attempts to reproduce some of the effects of baking in a traditional brick oven. Using a baking stone, or something else with lots of thermal mass, can help moderate the oven temperature and improve bread quality.

Traditional brick ovens, in addition to evenly heating a loaf of bread, also hold in the steam produced as bread bakes. This steam not only assists in transferring heat from the oven to the loaf, but it also provides some extra benefits. During the first six to eight minutes in the oven, a loaf goes through what is called “oven spring,” where the bread rises dramatically; the presence of steam allows the crust to expand without drying out, while also gelating the starch on the surface so that it will brown by the end of baking. Modern ovens do a poor job of keeping steam inside; gas ovens are actively vented to eliminate the steam produced by combustion. Electric ovens do a little better, but it’s an effect worth helping along.

There are a variety of ways to try to keep the oven environment humid. Professional ovens inject steam inside at low pressure to assist in crust formation. Various sources have different recommendations for the home baker. Spraying the hot inner surfaces of the oven with water helps, as can tossing in several ice cubes. A more effective means, if more difficult, is to place a large, ovenproof pan filled with boiling water on the bottom oven rack; if possible, fill it with objects with a lot of surface area, such as rocks or a metal chain, which will help evaporate more water. This produces a reliable source of steam for baking, and can help moderate the oven temperature against the effects of the gas burner or electric element cycling on and off. Still, you should be extremely careful because of the risk of accidentally burning yourself. For one of the simplest and best methods – essentially creating your own little brick oven – see the “No-Knead Bread” recipe.

STORAGE

If you are planning to eat the loaf within a day or two, store it at room temperature in a paper bag or a bread box; this will do the best job of preserving the texture of the crust. Storing bread in a sealed plastic bag will soften the crust and slow the staling process somewhat, but creates a moist enough environment to promote the growth of potentially dangerous molds. For long-term storage, wrap the loaf tightly in plastic or foil and freeze it. Refrigerating bread at temperatures above freezing speeds the staling process by as much as six times.

If a loaf isn’t too old, it can be “refreshed” in the oven and brought back to a state very close to freshly baked. Approximately ten minutes in a 300° F oven reverses some of the effects of staling, making the center of the loaf soft and tender and re-crisping the crust. Popping a slice of bread in the toaster has much the same effect, but with more browning – depending on how you like your toast.

BASIC WHITE BREAD
Makes one 1-½ lb. loaf

INGREDIENTS
3 cups bread or all-purpose flour, plus extra as needed
1 teaspoon instant yeast
1 Tablespoon kosher salt (or 2 teaspoons granulated salt)
1-¼ cups water, body temperature

DIRECTIONS
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, yeast, and salt until well combined. Add the water, stirring, using just enough to bring the dough together into a cohesive mass; if more is needed, add a tablespoon at a time. Turn out onto a lightly floured board and knead by hand until smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes. Transfer to a lightly oiled bowl, cover loosely with plastic wrap or a cloth, and let rise at room temperature until doubled in size, about 1 to 2 hours.

Turn the dough back out onto a lightly floured board and press it out gently with the heel of your hand. Do this to remove any large air bubbles. Return to the bowl, cover, and let rise another hour.

Shape the loaf as desired; if using a loaf pan or other mold, grease it lightly before placing the dough inside. Cover again and allow to rise until almost doubled, 30 minutes to an hour.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 450° F. When the dough is ready, slash the top in several places to allow steam to escape, and slide into the oven. Bake for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 350° F to finish cooking. When done, tapping the bottom of the loaf should produce a hollow sound; depending on the shape of the loaf, this may take 30 to 45 minutes.

Allow the bread to cool on a rack for at least 30 minutes. If baked in a pan, remove the loaf from the pan once it is out of the oven.

NOTES
This recipe can serve as a framework for a great variety of homemade breads. Try experimenting with variations in ingredients, shapes and baking methods to produce a wide range of different breads from essentially the same basic recipe.

NO-KNEAD BREAD
Adapted from the New York Times
Makes one 1-½ lb. loaf

INGREDIENTS
3 cups bread or all-purpose flour, plus extra as needed
¼ teaspoon instant yeast
1 Tablespoon kosher salt (or 2 teaspoons granulated salt)
1-5/8 cups water, room temperature
Cornmeal or wheat bran, as needed

DIRECTIONS
In a large bowl, combine the flour, yeast and salt. Add the water, and stir until blended; the dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Let the dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18, at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.

The dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place the dough on it; sprinkle it with a little more flour and fold it over on itself once or twice. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest about 15 minutes.

Using just enough flour to keep the dough from sticking to work surface or to your fingers, gently and quickly shape it into a ball. Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour, wheat bran or cornmeal; put the dough seam side down on towel and dust with more flour, bran or cornmeal. Cover with another cotton towel and let rise for about 2 hours. When it’s ready, the dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.

At least a half-hour before dough is ready, heat oven to 450° F. Put a 6- to 8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic) in the oven as it heats. When the dough is ready, carefully remove the pot from the oven. Slide your hand under the towel and turn the dough over into the pot, seam side up. Shake the pan once or twice if dough is unevenly distributed; it will straighten out as it bakes. Cover with the lid and bake 30 minutes.

Reduce the oven temperature to 425° F, remove the lid, and bake another 20 to 30 minutes, until the loaf is beautifully browned. Cool on a rack.

NOTES
The lengthy proofing period is essential to this bread, for developing the flavor, texture, and full rise.

This recipe adapts well to other flours and grains. For example, exchange up to half of the flour with whole wheat flour, a third with cornmeal, or a fifth with rye flour.

ADDITIONAL REFERENCES FOR GENERAL BAKING:
Bittman, Mark. How to Cook Everything: Simple Recipes for Great Food. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 1998.

Bittman, Mark. “The Minimalist: The Secret of Great Bread: Let Time Do the Work.” The New York Times. 8 Nov. 2006.

Brown, Alton. I’m Just Here for More Food. New York: Stewart, Tabori and Chang, 2004.

Davidson, Alan. The Oxford Companion to Food. 2nd ed. Ed. Tom Jaine. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2004.

Ingram, Christine and Jennie Shapter. The World Encyclopedia of Bread and Bread Making. New York: Hermes House, 2001.

McGee, Harold. On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen. New York: Scribner, 2004.

Rombauer, Irma S., Marion Rombauer Becker, and Ethan Becker. The Joy of Cooking. New York: Scribner, 1997.